A Conspiracy of Concern
by Katie Duggan's Niece
Summary: Cranford fanfiction inspired by the 2007 BBC series and more specifically the chemistry between Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo. A multi-chapter Victorian tale blending AU, the series, and Mrs. Gaskell, and advancing several romantic pairings. In progress...
1. Audacity, Hope, and Prayers

Like many fanfic writers and BBC/PBS addicts, I was greatly impressed by the 2007 miniseries **Cranford** - and completely heartbroken at the turn the storyline took with Mr. Carter. This story is my response.

It began to take shape while I still knew relatively little about Elizabeth Gaskell and her works - via some online reading of her novels, plus viewing assorted BBC adaptations – and had only the most basic knowledge of life in the Victorian era.

I've had to do a fair amount of research as I've gone along, and from the start I was particularly interested in the psychological aspects of loss and grief. It goes without saying that "my" Miss Galindo and Mr. Carter have to work through quite a few layers of experience and emotion to get at their damaged hearts. We all know the source of tension between them, even if they haven't admitted it to themselves yet, and I wanted to give them room to grow and breathe and find each other. I also wanted them to have their own story, whatever the intentions of the screenwriter and the author, and in that regard "A Conspiracy of Concern" is not only firmly in AU territory but owes a great deal to **The Best Years of Our Lives**.

Of course this story wouldn't exist without good Mrs. Gaskell, but I'll say up front I drew much of my inspiration from Heidi Thomas's witty and poignant script for the 2007 series, and from the great performances of the actors, notably Emma Fielding (Miss Galindo), Philip Glenister (Mr. Carter), Jim Carter (Captain Brown), Francesca Annis (Lady Ludlow), Alex Etel (Harry Gregson), Lisa Dillon (Mary Smith), Joe McFadden (Dr. Jack Marshland), and of course the inimitable Imelda Staunton (Miss Pole).

I hope you enjoy it, and do let me know what you think.

* * *

**Chapter 1:** **Audacity, Hope, and Prayers**

When Dr. Harrison arrived back at his room that evening, exhaustion had overtaken him, though his brain was fairly reeling with images: Captain Brown and Mr. Carter in his surgery; Reverend Hutton, his face ashen; Sophy in the midst of her fever; the sheer fright in the eyes of the Hutton girls; Jack Marshland's tireless and stoic efforts in the sickroom.

And of all days, this was one he'd recall without regret, for this time all the medical innovations, all the determination, all the sheer audacity – and, for all he knew, some of Reverend Hutton's prayers – had brought merciful, even miraculous results.

Mr. Carter, his right leg badly damaged in the explosion at the railway site, had survived an amputation, fortunately less radical than what he might have suffered, and though he faced a long convalescence, he had survived, God bless him.

And Sophy, darling Sophy, would live too. Dr. Harrison's heart had been very full when he had finally left her, the fever at last broken, and patient and physicians exhausted and spent. No one had been able to speak, but all had exchanged glances of recognition – best of all his Sophy, pale, fragile, but returning stubbornly to life. She would live. _She would live._

And with only that thought in his brain, he settled himself onto the bed and fell into a sleep from which he only awoke 14 hours later.

* * *

While Dr. Harrison was at last at rest, the same was not true of other denizens of Cranford that night. At Sophy Hutton's bedside her father kept vigil, and in another part of town Mary Smith and Laurentia Galindo did the same for Edward Carter, who was sleeping, though fitfully, after his ordeal.

Lady Ludlow and Miss Galindo had marveled at the resilience of Miss Smith, Dr. Harrison's unofficial surgical assistant and nurse, who had assisted during the amputation. The other two ladies had remained in an outer room during the operation, and if they had silently wept and prayed at the knowledge of what was taking place, they had been spared Miss Smith's experience.

Afterwards Lady Ludlow had quietly requested that Mr. Carter be taken to Hanbury for his convalescence. But Dr. Harrison had thought it best that he not be moved as yet, and so that night Mr. Carter slept at the surgery, watched over by Miss Smith and Miss Galindo, who took turns sitting awake beside the cot.

There was a peculiar intimacy in watching him while he slept, and Miss Galindo thought back to the events of the afternoon, and all that had come before them. She remembered their hours together in Lady Ludlow's estate office, working across from each other despite bitter exchanges – or, worse yet, strained silence – and how they had nevertheless both befriended Harry Gregson. She smiled wistfully. They had also befriended each other, despite all past misunderstandings and tensions. She thought again of the day Mr. Carter had turned up on her doorstep, flowers in hand, an unaccustomed shyness in his eyes.

And then this day had come, this terrible day, and Mr. Carter had been brought to Dr. Harrison for the operation that would either end or save his life.

Miss Galindo closed her eyes tightly. The memory of the afternoon was most painful. Mr. Carter, convinced of the worst, had demanded pen and ink and her assistance in drafting a will and testament right then and there. She had done it all, done everything he had requested, and when it came time for him to sign the document, she had taken his hand and guided it, gently stroking that hand, as he had looked up at her with an expression that made her avert her eyes, that left her fighting back tears.

And when they had brought her in to see him after the operation, with the smell of blood in the room and the horrific memory of his muffled screams, she had looked down at his sad, battered face, and attempted a smile. But the man on the cot looked back with an expression she had never seen before. Where was the Mr. Carter who had taught Harry Gregson to read, who had shown such devotion to Lady Ludlow, who had…

"_Miss Galindo, I am afraid Mr. Carter is dead." _Miss Galindo started from her sleep and looked around the room. Nothing had changed. No one had spoken. There was Mary, sitting in the chair beside Mr. Carter's cot, and there was Mr. Carter himself.

She must have dreamt it. _Please, God, let it have been a dream._

She quietly got to her feet and tiptoed over to Mary, who wore an expression of calm exhaustion and determined optimism. And then Miss Galindo looked down at Mr. Carter, at his scarred, precious face, and gently placed a hand on his forehead - warm, not hot. And he was breathing regularly. _Thank God. _

Mary rose from her chair, a little stiffly, and offered it to Miss Galindo, who accepted wordlessly and settled in for her vigil.

It was strange sitting here at Edward Carter's side, watching him sleep, willing him to sleep, and yet wishing he would open those pale eyes, recognize her. A look from him might speak the words he could not bring past his lips, she thought, remembering how intently he had gazed upon her, even in his pain.

His pain. _Dear_ _God, bring him through this. Dear God, bring him back to me – bring him back to us._ She laid her hand on his forehead and breathed her prayer a second time.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Altered Perspectives

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, which was based on Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**.

* * *

**Chapter 2:** **Altered Perspectives**

Edward Carter had spent hours drifting in and out of sleep. It had been a strangely exhausting night – a succession of images from dreams, from reality, interspersed with fitful rest, always with an undercurrent of pain. He'd dreamed of the dead – of his father, his mother, his wife – and then of the living, of Harry Gregson and Lady Ludlow and Captain Brown and Miss Galindo and Dr. Harrison. For years he had not been able to say whether dreaming of someone he'd lost comforted or saddened him. Now it seemed he was beyond any emotion, and spent by the night and the day that had come before.

When he opened his eyes again in the early morning and took in the presence of Miss Galindo, of Miss Smith, he was drawn slowly back through all that had taken place in that day, that night.

He did not want to think of any of it, would have gladly closed his eyes and forgotten it all, even the truth that he had survived, that Dr. Harrison and Mary Smith had possibly saved his life.

And then there was Miss Galindo, and the secrets she knew of him, that she'd seen him at his worst and possibly his best.

But all was altered now; he had not died, but neither was he able to…what was he able to do? Immobilized on his cot, watched over by two decent souls, he nevertheless wished to close his eyes again and avoid all that was to come.

"Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter." Mary Smith's voice was calling him back, and he was forced to open his eyes, to struggle with a smile – to submit to inquiries on pain and hunger and a multitude of things. And then suddenly there was Dr. Morgan, ready to examine him, to monitor his progress. Mrs. Rose had suddenly appeared as well, ready to assist with nursing. What had become of Dr. Harrison?

"Mr. Carter." Another voice – Miss Galindo's. He looked up at her as he had done the previous afternoon, and wondered at how things had so changed between them in a few hours.

"Mr. Carter, I will speak to Lady Ludlow –"

Lady Ludlow? _No! Why speak to Lady Ludlow? She did not know –_

"She will want a report on your condition, and then wish to arrange your convalescence at Hanbury. I will return later to see you."

* * *

She did not dare touch him, not in the presence of this cobbled-together medical staff, but managed the slightest of smiles – their accustomed acknowledgment when they had been unwilling colleagues at Hanbury – and then she vanished from his view.

While Dr. Morgan was seeing to Mr. Carter, Dr. Marshland appeared as well to receive an account of the night's watch from Mary Smith, and to persuade her to return home to rest. If Miss Galindo had been less distracted, she might have noticed that the heedless, charming Dr. Marshland was quite transformed this morning, and that if Miss Smith quietly but firmly refused his offer to escort her home, she was also looking at him with new eyes.

At that moment Miss Galindo would have given a great deal for some words of comfort herself, and as she prepared to leave the surgery, Captain Brown came in, anxious to see how his friend Carter had passed the night. The two men had been at the railway site when the explosion occurred, though the captain had been spared the worst of it. Still, he walked in with a bandage across one eye, a touch that lent him a fierce aspect. Seeing Miss Galindo, however, his expression softened.

"Good morning, Captain Brown," she said quietly.

"My dear Miss Galindo." Captain Brown took her hands in both of his. "Have you been here all this time? What a long night it must have been for you! Surely you must go home and rest."

"Thank you, Captain Brown. I was here to assist Miss Smith last night, as you see, and was just setting off towards home. But how are you, sir?"

"Oh, quite well. Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland put me right, even if I look rather a one-eyed ruffian at the moment. I gave Jessie such a fright when I walked in the door! But the more important question is," he said, dropping his voice, "how does your patient?"

"Mr. Carter is resting quietly, and Dr. Morgan and Mrs. Rose are with him."

"Is he out of danger?"

She hesitated. "Captain, I am afraid I can't tell you that."

"Well, surely he is in able hands." Captain Brown patted her hand. "Do not worry, Miss Galindo; the rest of us will see to Mr. Carter. Now you must look after yourself."

As Miss Galindo walked back to her rooms, spent and stunned, she fought the urge to weep. And it was only after she had arrived home, and had locked the door behind her, that she allowed herself those secret, painful tears.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Time Enough

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, which was based on Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**.

* * *

**Chapter 3**: **Time Enough**

The worst of being an invalid, thought Mr. Carter, was that he had entirely too much time to think. He'd have gladly traded his new life, these hours spent being fed, housed, and looked after, for one day of the old life, for one night of falling into bed after worrying himself to exhaustion about the estate. But now he had time enough to think, to read, even to sleep, and yet there was no relief in any of it. He had been brought to Hanbury – brought to Hanbury! The very phrase made him feel like a captive animal, or a curiosity procured for a museum – away from the eyes of the townsfolk, and here he was to recuperate

"You are not to worry, Mr. Carter," Lady Ludlow had informed him shortly after he had arrived. It had been the strangest interview Mr. Carter had ever experienced. Lady Ludlow glided into the room in her usual fashion, and he was painfully aware that he could not rise to his feet to greet her. Indeed, he'd actually been helped into a chair beforehand and carefully covered with lap robe. The humiliation was complete, for all that the attention and care were kindly meant.

"What I am saying is that I will not accept your resignation, nor will I dismiss you, nor turn you out."

"My lady, surely you see the need for an immediate –"

"No, Mr. Carter, I fear I do not. Someone else can do your work, but no one can replace you. There is no one who knows the estate as you do, apart from myself, of course." She paused for a moment, as he struggled to produce a reply to that.

She continued, "Moreover, your absence is temporary. Indeed, to some degree it is no absence at all. I can consult with you at will, and you can provide direction to Miss Galindo. Furthermore --"

"Miss Galindo!"

"I do believe, Mr. Carter, that you underestimate Miss Galindo."

"Indeed, I have the greatest esteem for Miss Galindo. It is only that –"

"Yes, I know. She is hardly your deputy and will by no means fill your position. But I rely upon her, very much so, and I suspect you do as well. She is more than capable of taking on greater tasks, at your direction and mine."

When he made no reply, she added, more quietly, "And I have also begun to reconsider your suggestion about introducing certain economies to Hanbury." He knew it cost her an effort to say that, and waited to see how she would continue. "I am contemplating several courses of action, and will consult you as I turn them over in my mind."

"But you are not to worry, Mr. Carter. All shall be well."

* * *

But he _did_ worry; that was precisely the task Lady Ludlow had provided him the leisure to perform. His mind would prey upon him during these empty hours of daylight, and it was worse still at night, when the darkness and silence enveloped him and his heart froze with fear. Questions seemed to come at him from every direction: Should he quit Hanbury, the place he had loved for so long, and begin again in another town? Or should he remain Lady Ludlow's steward, whatever his new limitations might be?

And then there was Harry Gregson. What might he do for Harry, now that Lady Ludlow had taken it upon herself to decide the boy's future?

Then there was the matter of her struggle to maintain Hanbury, to maintain the community as she had known and cherished it. She'd gone so far as to mortgage the estate, a decision that had cost him a number of sleepless nights of pondering various ways around that problem. It was only on the day of his accident that he had found a solution – a solution he'd revealed only to Miss Galindo.

Miss Galindo. He still was undecided as to whether her presence at Hanbury was a source of comfort or despair. Lady Ludlow surely had no notion of what had passed between him and Miss Galindo during the past weeks, or that their seeming enmity had given way to friendship, an alliance, even a common purpose. And during those heady days when everything was changing – the railroad was being built, Harry Gregson was struggling between two worlds, Lady Ludlow was stubbornly making her choice regarding Hanbury – during those days, in his quieter moments, he had thought a great deal about Miss Galindo and what went unspoken between them.

The day of the accident had seemed to settle the question, in one sense and another. In a moment of absolute trust and vulnerability, the look, the touch they'd exchanged meant everything – despair that they might soon be parted, comfort that they finally understood each other.

But since that day they'd not had one moment for a private word, and if they had, he wouldn't have known what to say. He no longer felt equal to reaching the place they had stood together before.

And now this evening, alone in his bed at Hanbury, he fell asleep and dreamed again of walking – walking through the bluebell woods, down the streets of Cranford, out to the railway site, and across the grounds of the estate and through its hallways – never quite reaching his destination, never able to find the door that would admit or release him.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. The Best Medicine

The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow** for the small screen. I have invented several characters of my own and departed from the canon in other respects.

* * *

**Chapter 4:** **The Best Medicine**

Thanks to Lady Ludlow, there were some burdens Mr. Carter had escaped.

For all that she knew Mr. Carter detested fuss and the trappings of privilege, she also understood something of his pride and was not about to place him into the hands of the informal community of nurses in Cranford, as well-intentioned as the local women might be. Mr. Carter would spend weeks in recuperation, and she was determined to spare him any affront to his dignity.

And so she had assigned a manservant the task of seeing to Mr. Carter's day-to-day needs. She had taken on Anthony Beckett at the recommendation of one of her friends, knowing that he had proven especially reliable in caring for convalescents. Mr. Beckett would assist Mr. Carter, even fulfilling rudimentary nursing duties, if it came to that, for as long as necessary.

They made an odd pair. Mr. Carter had stood a full six feet tall before his accident and had always been a vigorous man. Mr. Beckett was a half a head shorter and a good deal slighter. But he was also more than a decade younger than Mr. Carter, and quite sturdy in his own way – strong enough to help a man get about.

And he was watchful. He'd quickly sized up Mr. Carter's situation, for example, and was unsettled by what he found. Mr. Beckett had seen a number of people through illness and injury, and recognized the signs of melancholy. Mr. Carter was in low spirits, a troubling if not unexpected development, and Mr. Beckett feared Dr. Harrison's efforts would be all for naught if the care of body and spirit were not given equal consideration.

And so it was that Mr. Beckett had decided it was best that his patient receive visitors, as early and as frequently as possible.

In fact, very much to Mr. Carter's surprise, there had been a procession of friends and neighbors eager to visit him at Hanbury. Among the first was Captain Brown, bringing with him a copy of** The Pickwick Papers**, which, he was persuaded, would surely cheer up his friend Carter. Evidently he'd forgotten the passage about Mr. Burton and his wooden legs.

Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole had not been up to the estate but had sent a basket of fruit, with their compliments, and Mary Smith and Matty Jenkyns had actually paid a call. Even Reverend Hutton, who had concerns enough at home, had come by for a pastoral visit.

Miss Galindo had brought Mr. Carter a book of verse, though surely she must have known that the library at Hanbury afforded a more extensive collection. It pained him to think that she was parting with one of her own possessions for his sake, but he accepted the gift as graciously as he knew how.

And Harry Gregson had slipped in to see Mr. Carter as often as he could, and with the full encouragement of Mr. Beckett. Beckett wasn't quite certain what Harry was to Carter – probably neither relation nor ward, from what he could see -- but there was no mistaking how Mr. Carter's spirits rose when the boy came and read aloud to him, or sat chatting with him at the day's end.

For all that Mr. Carter was always glad to see Harry, though, he couldn't quite conceal his own bleak mood, and Harry, for his part, recognized a change in his friend that went beyond anything that had happened at the railway or in Dr. Harrison's surgery. After one of his visits he had dared to approach Anthony Beckett with a question.

"Is Mr. Carter going to die?" Harry's voice was very low.

_No one thought to explain anything to the boy, _thought Beckett, and as gently as he could, he replied, "No, Harry, Mr. Carter's not going to die. Now why do you ask me that?"

"He's not like he was, Mr. Beckett. I mean he's sad --"

"Of course he's sad, Harry. You wouldn't like it much, would you, if someone came and cut off your leg!" Seeing the look on Harry's face, he continued, "It's just that he's doing a hard thing now, see, and it may be some time before it's all put right."

Harry mulled that over for a moment, and thought of something else. "Is he well enough for me to come see him, then?"

"Harry, I think the very best thing for him right now is to see you." _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "He'll be all right, Harry. But for now you must keep visiting him, see, and get him to thinking."

"About what?"

"Life, for one thing. It's a gift. Mr. Carter's lucky to be here, even if he doesn't much believe it now. And you must talk to him of books and such – you know, the things he's teaching you, the things you still want to learn."

* * *

And so Harry Gregson came, and all the others. Mr. Carter had some suspicion of what Anthony Beckett was about, especially on the evening Harry came in and said, "You're looking very well, Mr. Carter" – a turn of phrase the boy would never have produced on his own. But he could forgive Harry his ruses and games, and even Mr. Beckett, at that. The boy's visits were a welcome relief in his rather empty days, and if Beckett was a little too solicitous for his own good, at least he made no open display of pity.

It was some time before Lady Ludlow understood what liberal access Mr. Beckett had been granting Mr. Carter's stream of visitors. When she discovered that Harry Gregson had once again become Mr. Carter's pupil, she ordered Anthony Beckett to appear before her. Mr. Carter was not to be disturbed unnecessarily, she told him, and all visitors, apart from the local physicians and of course Reverend Hutton, were to meet with her approval.

"My lady, believe me, I was only concerned about Mr. Carter's spirits –"

She stopped him. "Your work has been above reproach till now, Anthony, but I warn you that if you disobey me in this, I will turn you out of the house, and without a reference." Lady Ludlow took no pleasure in seeing the color drain from the young man's face, but a principle was a principle. Then, softly: "You may go."

"Thank you, madam."

But if Anthony was outwardly compliant, within his brain a plan was already forming. There were at least two options that remained to him, and regardless of what Lady Ludlow had said, he had every intention of exploiting both.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Not Made of Stone

The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow** for the small screen. I have invented a few characters of my own and departed from the canon in other respects.

* * *

**Chapter 5**: **Not Made of Stone**

"Miss, I have news concerning Mr. Carter." Miss Galindo's heart had nearly stopped at those words, delivered when Anthony Beckett had intercepted her as she set off towards home one evening. She had been distracted and anxious to begin with, her mind consumed with the state of Lady Ludlow's fortunes, and she had hardly expected this young man to emerge out of a doorway and address her.

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but I didn't know where else to turn," Anthony began. Now that was a minor lie; he had already resolved to speak with Mr. Carter's physicians as well. But still he knew he had to seek out this lady with the sad eyes, whose frequent visits to Mr. Carter had so piqued his interest.

Indeed, he had been watching her for some time, and understood she was no mere clerk. He had in fact seen her in the company of Lady Ludlow, who addressed her by her Christian name, and in a gentler tone than Anthony had ever heard her ladyship use. Miss Galindo, whoever she was, might well prove the means to getting around Lady Ludlow's wrong-headed approach to Mr. Carter's treatment.

Of Miss Galindo Mr. Carter had not spoken a word to him, though she came regularly to see them both and make her reports. Each meeting, though, was fraught with tension, and that too had excited Anthony's curiosity. Well, Mr. Carter's accident had surely upset the workings of the estate, but evidently the damage had gone well beyond that.

Now she was standing before him, and it was the first time he had ever seen her alone. He thought he detected a touch of fear in her eyes, for all that her gaze was direct. And he had excited_ her_ curiosity with his words; he could see that.

She was looking at him now, with those fine brown eyes, and had composed herself again.

"Is there some trouble?"

Such a musical voice she had, so soft, fine, and low. He swallowed, steadied himself, and said, "There's something I must tell you about Mr. Carter, and before I do, I must say he hasn't given leave for me to speak – to you or to anyone. In fact he doesn't know I'm here."

Now she was curious; he could see it. "What is it, Anthony?"

"Well, Miss, you know well what a fine recovery Mr. Carter has made, how much stronger he is now –"

"Yes, Anthony, and that's no doubt owing to the care he has received." She gave a soft smile. "Lady Ludlow has been most generous, and of course you have given extraordinary service to Mr. Carter."

She had given him he opening he needed. "Thank you, Miss, but there's one service I haven't been able to perform for Mr. Carter. Lady Ludlow won't grant him visitors, aside from the doctors, without her leave, and I worry about his spirits."

"Indeed." She had taken offense at that; he could see it. He had presumed to question Lady Ludlow's judgment, and to Miss Galindo, who was clearly something to her ladyship.

"Indeed, Anthony, you need not trouble yourself that there is a dearth of people worrying about your Mr. Carter. We have all spent ourselves watching and praying for his full recovery."

"Please, Miss, I meant no offense. Only believe me when I say the man is in despair – and I've seen many like him, Miss, and it troubles me."

"And what do you think I have in my power to do about it?"

"Well, Miss, the doctors might listen to you, and perhaps even her ladyship would –"

"That is enough, Anthony. I can scarcely imagine Lady Ludlow, or for that matter Dr. Harrison, would need my counsel in this matter."

"But she might listen, Miss, and for the sake of her steward's life. I mean –"

"'Her steward's life'?" Now she was angry. "What do you mean to say to me? That Mr. Carter will do himself an injury without my direct intervention?"

Anthony hesitated. He had always been cautious about leaving Mr. Carter on his own, given his state of mind, but he couldn't quite judge the full extent of the man's despair, nor did he care to test it…

He took a deep breath. "As I said, Miss, I've seen many like him, and he ought not to be kept locked away, like he was – "

"That is enough. That is enough." She was thoroughly rattled. For a moment she seemed unable to think of anything to say to him. Then she recovered and added, "Thank you for revealing what you have observed, but I am certain we can rely upon Mr. Carter's physicians to judge the best course of treatment for him."

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but please –"

"Yes. I understand you speak out of concern. I will remember that. Good night, Anthony."

"Good night, Miss."

* * *

That Beckett fellow certainly had ideas above his station, thought Dr. Morgan. Imagine, confronting himself and Dr. Harrison about the care of one of their patients! But Frank had taken the man's impertinence in stride, thanked him for his concern, and agreed that the time had come to advance to the next step in treatment. And Jack Marshland had more than concurred, said it was high time they bullied Carter out of that modified bath chair Lady Ludlow had placed him in, and got him out and about. After that Frank and Jack had gotten into a lengthy discussion about the merits of sending poor Carter clear to London to get fitted for a new limb and how soon that might be attempted. There was no stopping these lads, thought Morgan, once they'd become infatuated with a new plan.

Speaking to Lady Ludlow about the matter had proved easier than any of them had expected. Dr. Morgan prepared the ground, as it were, by complimenting her ladyship's dedication to her steward. No son could have been cared for as devotedly as had Mr. Carter, said Dr. Morgan, and surely his recovery must owe to a great deal to Lady Ludlow's efforts.

Then Dr. Harrison announced that it was customary, following the first phase of recuperation, to introduce more normal activities to the patient, to encourage him to get about on his own, including by the use of crutches. The object, explained Dr. Harrison, was to allow Mr. Carter to resume walking, once he had been fitted with a suitable device. Surely it would please her ladyship to see Mr. Carter more his old self, and able to resume his normal duties.

What none of them knew, of course, was that Lady Ludlow had been contemplating her next steps for some time. Anthony Beckett, for all that she'd openly dismissed his claims, had unsettled her with his revelations about Mr. Carter's state of mind. And then Laurentia Galindo, whose judgment she had no reason to question, had confided her own fears.

No, she was willing, indeed eager, to entrust Mr. Carter into their care.

"My lady, I can assure you there have been many advances in recent years, and you need not worry that Mr. Carter will be unable to resume his normal duties, " Dr. Harrison had assured her. "Why, you will be amazed at the possibilities –"

"Yes, Dr. Harrison, I am certain I shall be, but perhaps you had best share this with your patient."

Dr. Harrison grinned. "I apologize, my lady. Of course you are right."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	6. Captain Brown Reforms

The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by the Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell.

* * *

**Chapter 6:** **Captain Brown Reforms**

To keep its inhabitants well supplied with gossip, the town of Cranford required nothing more than a steady stream of revelations and a few outright catastrophes. The year 1843 had thus far provided an extraordinary quantity of both.

To be sure, some of the news had been rather sobering. Illness had very nearly taken Sophy Hutton from them, and it was God's own mercy that her father had been spared yet another loss. Some of the more free-thinking members of the community had dared to whisper that if the young lady had survived, it was down to the efforts of the man of science in their midst. But everyone, pious or otherwise, had to agree that Frank Harrison had once more demonstrated his worth to the village.

The young doctor had seen to poor Mr. Carter as well, and worked another miracle there. Of course it was a shame that Mr. Carter would henceforth be a cripple, but hadn't he been very brave! In fact, to hear Mrs. Forrester tell it, Mr. Carter might as well have survived the Battle of Waterloo.

And when the community had barely finished uttering its prayers of thanks that Miss Hutton and Mr. Carter had remained in its midst, a pair of travelers arrived in town, as if to complete the blessing.

Peter Jenkyns, a son of Cranford, had returned from abroad, and so had Major Gordon, the Brown family's occasional visitor. That first arrival was a source of great joy, to say nothing of relief, to Mr. Jenkyns's surviving sister, Miss Matty, and as well a subject of tremendous interest to the ladies of the village.

Major Gordon's return had prompted an entirely different turn of events: He had at last led Jessie Brown to the altar, and forever banished that sadness from her eyes.

Jessie's surreptitious romance had been a revelation to her poor father, Captain Brown, who had heretofore esteemed his new son-in-law merely as an old family friend and welcome visitor. All the meaningful glances and modest gifts exchanged between the major and Jessie had completely escaped his notice. Why, he hadn't even realized that when she played the spinet and the major sang, their duets were invariably love songs! But the late Miss Deborah Jenkyns had seen it, and Miss Matty too, and the latter had delicately revealed as much to the captain.

Well, Captain Brown had done with misreading people and their intentions. Of that he was resolved. If he'd been too blind to notice a courtship conducted over the course of a decade, or to see that his daughter had very nearly sacrificed her best chance of happiness, and for his sake, he wasn't going to make that mistake a second time.

Besides, he had good neighbors here in Cranford, kind people who had been true friends to him, to Jessie. It was time he returned the favor, and so he now gave himself over to observation of the community, inwardly chuckling to think what a remarkable ally he'd have made for the sharp-eyed Miss Pole if she'd only known what he was about. But providing gossip was not his objective, no, not at all.

No, he had been turning over in his mind a scene he had beheld on the day of the railway explosion. It occupied his mind still, for all that it had lasted but a few moments.

While he'd been bandaged up by the doctors, his friend Mr. Carter had been taken into the next room to prepare for surgery, and Captain Brown could see that Miss Galindo had accompanied him – a strange thing, or so it had seemed at the time. But apparently Carter merely had some commission for her, a document to draft, and so Captain Brown had thought no more about it until things had taken an interesting turn. Carter needed to sign the document but was in a bad way, and so the lady had offered to steady his hand with hers. But from where he was sitting, Brown could see she was very nearly in tears, and as Carter lay there in his miserable state, he was looking up at her with such longing.

Brown wasn't certain what had taken place between them before that, but he knew what he had seen with that one good eye of his: Carter was in love with her, or she with him, or perhaps each with the other.

But since then there had been no announcement, no banns read in church on Sunday, and Carter was moping about at Hanbury, with that Beckett fellow always tending to him. And whenever the captain had met Miss Galindo these days, he'd seen the sorrow in those lovely brown eyes. She and Carter made a pair, didn't they – or no, they didn't, which was precisely the problem.

_What the devil was wrong with men?_ Captain Brown wondered. When confronted with fine women, loyal women, they ran for miles – well, perhaps he shouldn't put it that way, not with what had happened to poor old Carter. But God knows, Major Gordon_ had_ made a retreat, gone abroad with his regiment, and tried to forget his Jessie. Surely a man's pride wasn't worth years of loneliness, or the breaking of a woman's heart.

It was not, Captain Brown thought, that Edward Carter would treat a woman dishonorably. No indeed; he was a man of impeccable reputation and sober mien. Still, his estimable character might well be the problem! Boldness was in order, not caution, and perhaps their Mr. Carter would never dare anything without a little encouragement.

Carter was a widower, like himself, but with few friends and no near relations – a cheerless existence Brown couldn't bear to contemplate for long. With no wife, no children to brighten him up, how did Carter bear it? Captain Brown could while away his evenings listening to Jessie play the spinet, or swapping tales of military exploits with his son-in-law, or chatting about Dickens with his neighbors. He even rather enjoyed the fussing and gossip and occasional indignation of the ladies of Cranford, yes, even all the times Miss Deborah Jenkyns had dressed him down for one thing or another.

But Mr. Carter had built himself a life without such complications or, for that matter, pleasures. Oh, he had ideals, all right, and rather radical notions, which Captain Brown admired but didn't always understand, but he was altogether too austere, too solitary.

Still, for all that Carter was serious, distant, and reserved, Captain Brown had taken a liking to him, much as he had warmed to Deborah Jenkyns. Brown chuckled to himself. There was no concealing a good heart, even behind layers of formality. What was it Shakespeare had written about a good heart? Confound it, he couldn't remember the quotation – something about the sun and the moon, and constancy. Anyway, Deborah Jenkyns had had a good heart, and so had Edward Carter.

The trouble was that while Mr. Carter had lost a limb, it had been his heart that had sustained the real damage, or at least he was guarding against the intrusions of well-meaning neighbors and friends.

Well, Captain Brown was his friend, and there you had it. Carter would not be permitted to lock himself away, whether behind doors of wood and iron, or of chilly reserve. Of that Brown was resolved.

And then there was Miss Galindo, Miss Laurentia Galindo, a baronet's daughter, and a spinster past the age of 35. She was older even than his Jessie had been, and yet…and here Captain Brown reproached himself once more for having countenanced Charles Maulver's harsh comment that Jessie had lost her bloom. What fools men were! His Jessie had spent all those years nursing her sister and pining for the major, only to have Charles Maulver turn up and pass judgment on her. What did he know? The major had returned, and so had the glow in Jessie's cheeks. In fact she'd never been prettier.

And with a little tending, Miss Galindo would brighten up too, not that she really needed much of that. Her features were fine, her bearing regal, her figure tidy, and she was, Brown thought, altogether a charming woman. Indeed, it was all to the good that she was no simpering girl with a head full of romance and a mouth full of gossip. She was modest, yes, and often quiet, but she had within her that secret wit, the spirit and humor to challenge a man. Privately Captain Brown thought Miss Galindo the equal of a Shakespearean heroine – a Rosalind, perhaps, or a Beatrice or Portia. A woman with wit and a good, sound heart – yes, that was it. He was counting on the tenderness of her heart.

It would be a sin to permit such a woman to fade into years of neglect and penury – life could be so cruel to spinsters, Brown thought – and surely any decent man would quite agree with him.

And Edward Carter_ was_ a decent man, and a sensible one. Brown hoped to God that would be enough.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	7. Dr Morgan's Prescription

The following was inspired by the BBC's **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and have taken all manner of liberties with the canon.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Dr. Morgan's Prescription**

"May I speak plainly, Mr. Carter?"

"Please do, Doctor." Mr. Carter had not expected this particular visit from Dr. Morgan, nor did he welcome it. If Dr. Morgan appeared on the doorstep, it was usually to prescribe some distasteful tonic or suggest some other unpleasant addition to his regimen, and the expression Morgan was wearing this time did nothing to discourage that impression, either.

"Well, then," began Dr. Morgan, "I share Dr. Harrison's opinion that your recovery has been most satisfactory. The wound's healed nicely, no signs of infection, and you've borne any pain quite admirably." He paused, very much dreading the next speech he had to make. "But I must tell you, Mr. Carter, that it is a recovery of the body alone."

Carter's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Morgan took a deep breath and continued.

"Quite frankly, Mr. Carter, I am deeply troubled by this melancholy that has afflicted you. Oh, it's entirely natural; I understand that. You're a man in the prime of life, after all, and to have this happen – well, it has to have been a bitter blow."

"But, Mr. Carter, I'd be a poor doctor if I treated an injury and left your spirits to waste away. You must look to your mind from now on, as well as your body, for one is as essential as the other."

"Well, then, Doctor," replied Carter, rather coolly, "just what course of treatment are you proposing?" _Harrison took my leg – or rather the explosion did that, damn it -- but for God's sake, won't anyone leave me my pride?_

Morgan brightened. "Nothing's simpler, Mr. Carter. You must seek stimulation of the mind – an intellectual challenge, spiritual sustenance, perhaps even distraction – but above all seek out society --"

"Society!"

"Yes, your friends, your associates. You've undergone surgery, Mr. Carter, not formal banishment! There's no need to make a hermit of yourself. Can you not, for instance, just as easily spend your evenings in pleasant company as not? That's the cure for melancholy, Mr. Carter -- as I know from my own experience," he added, smiling.

"Really, Dr. Morgan, at present I cannot gad about Cranford." _And I never did in the first place,_ he thought.

"No, but you have intellectual pursuits. Don't say you haven't. I know you're a reading man, an educated man. Well, seek out those who share your interests. And you are no misanthrope, Mr. Carter, however much you would like to convince me otherwise. People like and respect you, too; do not forget that." Morgan was afraid that last part savored too much of flattery, but was rewarded when Carter's glowering subsided ever so slightly. Still, the man was as guarded as a fortress.

Morgan continued, gently, "I speak not merely from professional interest but sincere concern. And I confess I would never forgive myself if I let a man who had so much to be grateful for – yes, Mr. Carter, would that all my patients could count themselves so fortunate – destroy himself with despair."

Carter flinched. _Despair?_ He had flattered himself that he had had discipline enough to master both the temptation to complain and to grieve. Still, he had been well aware of the worried and watchful gazes of Lady Ludlow, Mr. Beckett, Miss Galindo, even young Harry, and now Dr. Morgan had his eye upon him.

Somehow it hadn't been enough, Mr. Carter thought, to have to wake up every day to sorrow and self-loathing. No, there had to be this constant onslaught of pity and advice and scrutiny, when he wished people would leave him alone

As if privy to Mr. Carter's thoughts, Morgan continued. "Mr. Carter, I've no wish to add to your suffering, and I meant no offense. You have borne a great deal with admirable restraint. But I would be a poor doctor, and a worse neighbor, not to see what has become of your spirits. And I'd never forgive myself if I failed to speak plainly."

Drawing in a breath, Morgan continued, "You must look after yourself. Take the air, call upon your neighbors, once you are up and about. Embark on a new endeavor."

He paused for a moment, and then smiled once more. "Surely God must have left you among us for a reason, Mr. Carter. Can't you set about discovering what His plan might be?"

* * *

To Mr. Carter's immense relief, the next time Dr. Morgan called, he brought young Frank Harrison with him. Mr. Carter had actually preferred to deal with Cranford's newer physician, given the man's straightforward but diplomatic manner with his patients, and Harrison was, as Reverend Hutton put it, a man of science.

But Harrison had also been discussing the Carter case with Jack Marshland, and evidently caught some of the Irishman's mischievous spirit. "Do not become too accustomed to that chair, Mr. Carter, " Dr. Harrison announced. "We are going to have you up and about in no time!"

Well, perhaps the faculty at Guy's Hospital gave instruction in exhausting patients with relentless cheer, thought Mr. Carter. It was always so simple for physicians: _Do this, and all will be well._ He'd have liked to have seen how Harrison would have borne it, had he lost a leg.

"Besides, Lady Ludlow would have our heads if we failed you now." And Mr. Carter thanked Providence that her ladyship was not present to hear _that_ singularly inappropriate joke.

"Indeed, Lady Ludlow has been most impressed with your efforts, Dr. Harrison, and so have I. And we are both eager to learn what news you have about my – my prospects."

"Well, then, Mr. Carter, I believe it is possible, with your full recovery, that we might send you to London to be fitted with a medically suitable limb – jointed, not some crude device – which would allow you to walk again, to resume your duties in full. And even your appearance ought not to seem much altered, at that."

Mr. Carter had his doubts about that last claim. Still, there was one question he had to ask. "Do you think I will be able to ride again?"

"One task at a time, if you please, Mr. Carter!" said Dr. Morgan.

Harrison smiled kindly. "It may be possible." This was the first time he had seen Carter express any interest in the future, and he didn't want to discourage it. "We'll have to see once you have been fitted with your new limb. But it is just about time, Mr. Carter, that you made that trip to London."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. Journeys Within and Without

The following was inspired by the BBC's **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and have taken all manner of liberties with the canon.

* * *

**Chapter 8:** **Journeys Within and Without**

A soft rain had been falling that morning when Harry Gregson had risen and gone to the cowshed. His life had fallen into a pattern of such routine, one that exhausted his body but left him alone with his thoughts. During the workday little snatches of verse or prose, the precious words that he'd read and learned under Mr. Carter's tutelage, sometimes drifted through his mind, and he tried to envision the printed pages again. Dreaming thus allowed him such freedom as could be had while he was in Lady Ludlow's service, working to support his family.

Today his mind was drawn in a different direction, though, towards the wider world, for he knew Mr. Carter was set to depart for London and would surely come and see him first. As Harry waited for his friend's arrival, he couldn't help wishing that he could join Mr. Carter in the coach, then the train to London, and leave Hanbury behind.

Somebody whistled from the doorway of the shed, pulling Harry out of his daydreams. Mr. Beckett was outside, grinning as though he'd thought up this meeting himself, and there was Mr. Carter at his side, looking much as he had done, in breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and coat. This time, though, he was wearing just one boot and needed a pair of crutches to help him stand.

"Come now, Harry, don't look at me that way," Mr. Carter said. "I shall be walking with ease the next time you see me, you know."

Harry managed a smile. "Here at Hanbury, yes, sir. But I'd rather see you do it in London."

"You would, at that. You'd have Mr. Beckett pack you in a trunk, wouldn't you, if it meant you could come along with us."

"I'd like very much to see London, sir."

"And so you shall, Harry, when you're a man and can do what you will. But for now you must stay here like a good lad. When I get back, I can tell you all about London, and we shall have even more books to read, too."

"I'd like that."

"Good. Now look after yourself, Harry, and I'll see you very soon."

"Mr. Carter –"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I hope the doctors in London are very clever, and I hope they're very good."

Beckett could have sworn he saw tears in Carter's eyes. "Oh, they're the cleverest in the world, Harry, the cleverest in the world."

* * *

Laurentia Galindo had never minded a soft summer rain on the Hanbury estate. Everything was so wonderfully green, so blissfully peaceful. But here in town, where she had her rooms and her millinery shop, a rainy day, even one in late summer, made the streets mud and the atmosphere bleak.

If it had been an ordinary day, Miss Galindo might have remained inside, perhaps lingering over a cup of tea, then spending the daylight hours crafting caps and bonnets. But on this day Mr. Carter would be going to London, and Lady Ludlow had been most insistent that she and Miss Galindo would see him off on his journey.

She'd come alone to the spot where Lady Ludlow waited in her carriage, Mr. Carter at her side. There was Anthony Beckett too, ready to accompany Mr. Carter all the way to London. She thought she detected a sense of excitement in Anthony, and he caught her eye and gave a hint of a smile – as endearing as it was impudent.

Mr. Carter was looking much as he had before, though that illusion was destroyed when he had to rise out of the carriage and manage, with crutches and some assistance from Anthony, to step into the muddy street. He bowed to Lady Ludlow, as well as he could.

But there was no haughtiness in her ladyship this morning, for all that she was surrounded by people in her employ. She leaned forward to address her estate manager.

"Write to me of your progress, Mr. Carter, and of course if there is any need that should arise, do not hesitate to apply to me."

"Thank you, my lady. I am sure all shall be well."

"And you shall be in our thoughts and prayers." Perhaps it was then that her ladyship softly uttered the word "Godspeed" – Miss Galindo saw her lips move, but couldn't quite hear what was said – before settling back into the carriage

Miss Galindo then stepped nearer to the two men and thought she saw Anthony place a gentle hand on Mr. Carter's shoulder, turning him in her direction.

"Mr. Carter."

"Miss Galindo." He nodded, smiled slightly.

"Well, if the opinions of Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland are any indication, you should be wandering straight into the path of medical progress itself. I am sure you will find that interesting, and I pray you will find it useful."

"I am certain you are correct in both regards, Miss Galindo."

She reached out her hand to him, and he clasped it for a heartbeat.

"Godspeed, Mr. Carter." And then: "Come back safely to us."

* * *

It was going to be a long and tiring journey, but Mr. Carter detected a touch of boyish excitement in Beckett at the prospect of going to London. He'd have been enthusiastic himself, had he not been consumed by doubts about what would befall him once they arrived and he kept the appointments Frank Harrison and Jack Marshland had arranged.

Beyond that, there were all the conundrums he would have to solve when he came home to Hanbury, whatever happened to him in London.

The trouble had begun, he decided, when Lady Ludlow had thwarted his plan to make a clerk of Harry Gregson. If he was to employ additional staff, she implied, he'd have someone of her own choosing, not this poacher's boy. And so Lady Ludlow had personally escorted Laurentia Galindo into his office one day.

"I have brought a helpmeet for you," her ladyship had announced, just as though she were God introducing the first woman to the first man.

The analogy had been apt, and not a little unsettling. Mr. Carter's Eden had gained a new inhabitant, indeed, its first woman, and at Lady Ludlow's will, not his own. With that came an end to peace.

She'd practiced an odd blend of provocation and diplomacy, his Miss Galindo. On the one hand, she'd very nearly suggested Mr. Carter's notions of universal education were insufficiently progressive, that if he was going to instruct the Harry Gregsons of the world, he must also remember the ladies. On other hand, however, she'd proven blessedly intuitive, able to read Mr. Carter's moods and wishes as easily as any account ledger. And she'd had an education superior to his – that he had to admit, though it brought him shame – and knew how to get along at Hanbury and in workaday Cranford as well. How was it that she belonged properly to neither of those places, and yet always knew what to say in every circumstance?

He'd marveled too at the speed with which she had befriended Harry, who, in another time, would never have even entered her world. For Harry's part, his response to Miss Galindo had rested somewhere between impudent familiarity and open adoration.

Well, Mr. Carter could not be so easily bought off with a few smiles and kind words, even if Harry could.

But here Mr. Carter smiled ruefully. Perhaps Harry's was the better way; at least there was an honesty and innocence to it. Mr. Carter, on the other hand, found his very conscience under assault at the acknowledgement that Miss Galindo's presence had reminded him he was a man like any other -- and not a particularly high-minded one, at that. Had she been docile, dull, and dutiful, he would have felt at ease, or at least indifferent. But no, she must tease him, turn those eyes boldly on him with each pronouncement she made, each question she posed. She had vexed him, challenged him, and he couldn't escape the suspicion that she knew precisely the effect she was having on him.

He closed his eyes and could see her face still, the curve of her chin, the arch of her brows. Strange, wasn't it, that he had thought her rather plain when first they met. Perhaps it was the color and cut of her clothing, or the chaste simplicity with which she dressed her hair. But when she smiled – at Harry, of course, and not at him -- those bewitching dimples appeared, and there was sweetness in her expression that he'd have given anything to see again.

So he had made an effort to be kinder to her, and she had responded, and a truce seemed to be at hand. That was, of course, before Lady Ludlow had drawn an unwitting Miss Galindo into her plan to mortgage Hanbury Court. They'd gone behind his back, both of them, and he turned on the one in sorrow and the other in fury.

But then he had gone to Miss Galindo, visited her in her shop, in her home. They had even then approached each other warily – he with his good intentions, his unfailing need to do the right thing, and she with her wit, her matchless skill in saying the right thing. She had told him just what he needed to hear, that she had acted in obedience to Lady Ludlow and in ignorance of her scheme. And she had accepted his unspoken apology, delivered through a bouquet of flowers and not by words, and they had begun yet again. Things ought to have taken their natural course from there, but…

Mr. Carter sighed to himself here, drawing a glance from Beckett, who had been gazing out the window. Beckett displayed just the trace of a smile, then turned again to his watching, as Mr. Carter returned to his thoughts.

Then had come the day of the explosion, and he'd taken Miss Galindo into his confidence. Should he die of his injuries, he told her, then his estate would go to assist both Harry and Lady Ludlow – to provide the one an education, to save the other from the humiliation and insecurity of that mortgage.

But he had lived, albeit in this maimed, wretched state, and now, however fine his plans had been, all of them – Lady Ludlow, Harry, Miss Galindo – remained trapped in their former roles.

It had been so much simpler, he thought, when he was the stern but fair Edward Carter, master in his own office, advocate and mentor to Harry Gregson. Things ought to have run smoothly from there. But the women, and perhaps fate itself, had had other ideas.

Then again, what chance had there ever been that things would unfold as he had imagined? He had dreamed before, hoped before, and seen what had happened. His wife had died, leaving him alone. His fortune had been earned, but at such a cost. And now even the estate at Hanbury, which he had nurtured for so long, stood in jeopardy, thanks to that damnable Septimus and the power he wielded over his mother.

It exhausted Mr. Carter to think of all this. Fortunately, this journey would force him to concentrate on the business of making himself whole again, or at least as whole as could be managed. And if he could deal with the limitations of his body, then perhaps too the questions within his heart might somehow prove conquerable.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	9. The View from London

**A/N: **Please note that our story takes place in 1843 – well after Lord Uxbridge but before the American Civil War, when medicine achieved many advances for men in Mr. Carter's situation. My apologies to historians and medical professionals for anything I get wrong.

* * *

**Chapter 9: ****The View from London**

_My dear Miss Galindo,_

_Thank you for your prompt report on the business of the estate, especially the account concerning the recent economies introduced by her ladyship. The additional correspondence to secure new situations for staff is a burden I would gladly have spared you, and I thank you for bearing it so willingly._

_I share your opinion that the sale of the Shetland pony must have caused Lady Ludlow much distress, but surely that particular blow was softened by your presence, and by the compassion and kindness you have always shown my lady. _

_Our journey east was itself uneventful. Unfortunately, Mr. Beckett was taken ill several days after we had arrived, and I suspect that London does not suit him. He is such a cheerful, energetic, reliable fellow, and it grieved me to see him suffer so. However, he has since rallied and will no doubt have more pleasant than unpleasant memories of this journey._

_Of my reason for visiting London, I will only say that Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland were most thorough in their inquiries and arrangements, and I trust my progress as a patient will not disappoint my friends and colleagues at home. _

_I will not remain away a day longer than is necessary and expect to be back at Hanbury very soon. Extend my greetings to our mutual acquaintance. I am certain you understand my meaning._

_Very truly yours,_

_Edward Carter_

_

* * *

_

Learning to walk again, for all that he was past forty! But that was the task Mr. Carter had set himself, and as he at last faced it in London -- alone, but for Mr. Beckett's company -- he gained determination

He had been very much relieved to learn that Dr. Harrison's optimism had not been unfounded, that the device available to him in London had indeed proved more useful and less primitive than he had imagined. Of course he'd had to bear with the process of adjusting to a jointed manmade limb – the attendant discomforts, the effort required to produce as natural a gait as possible, the simple need to learn again the activities he had once taken for granted – but he'd come to accept it.

And he secretly hoped that once he was home, his neighbors would learn to forget what happened to him, even if he could not. He would not be an object of pity, or even curiosity, if he could help it.

One concern he had previously shared with no one, not even Dr. Harrison, was the curious sensation of feeling pain in the _missing_ part of his leg. Half fearing he was going mad, Carter had mentioned that condition to one of the London physicians, a Dr. March, who had merely remarked, "Men of medicine have been recording that phenomenon for longer than either of us has been on this Earth, Mr. Carter. I assure you that you are by no means the first patient who has reported such a complaint." That had silenced him.

But if he had to resign himself to occasional pain, he was also determined to master his new means of getting about, and so he began to take his walks about London, sometimes in Beckett's company, sometimes not.

Before they'd come away, both men had been sternly instructed by Dr. Harrison not to wander haphazardly about London but to always be aware of their surroundings, lest they become the prey of pickpockets and thieves. With that sobering bit of advice in his memory, Mr. Carter had commenced his excursions into the streets, to begin an education like none he'd received in his years as a clerk in Birmingham.

It was humbling to discover, for instance, that he'd grown so accustomed to a relatively quiet life in Cheshire that the bustle and noise of the city quite overwhelmed him, as did various unpleasant realities its inhabitants faced.

What troubled him most during his journeys through London was the sight of all the children, many younger than Harry, who were obliged to work or otherwise make their way in the world – the young costermongers, the street sweepers, the errand boys, the pickpockets and beggars. He had seen his fill of this sort of misery before, at the mill in Halifax, indeed sometimes in Cranford as well, but never on such a scale.

And there was more. In one of the streets he'd seen one poor fellow, perhaps an old sailor or soldier, with stumps for legs, seated on a crude sort of low cart. Carter had taken what coins he had and poured them into the man's hands before going on his way. _You cannot save them all_, he had reminded himself. But if he'd ever needed proof of his own privilege, he had gained it in full.

* * *

But if Mr. Carter's recovery of the ability to walk demanded increased patience, and the journeys through London increased humility, his sojourn in the city was by no means wholly unpleasant. Indeed, after a time, he decided that though he'd come to the city to see to medical concerns, there was no reason why he should not plan a few diversions.

He had intended, for instance, to bring back a few gifts to friends at Cranford and Hanbury. For Mr. Carter, this meant seeking out the booksellers as soon as he was able to walk on his own.

It hadn't been difficult to find what he wanted, either. There would be something new from Mr. Dickens for Captain Brown, of course, and for Harry, things that would spark his curiosity, perhaps even make him laugh. And so Mr. Carter had found a book of fables, with pictures, and then an interesting little history of Britain, something a young boy wouldn't find too dry or dusty.

Then Mr. Carter had happened upon a most unexpected treasure. At one of the stalls he saw a fine little book, beautifully bound. Within it was a series of color illustrations of various places in Italy, and sonnets printed on the alternating pages. Oh, this was a prize; he had to buy it, even if he didn't know whether he would keep it for himself or no. A few words with the bookseller, an exchange of money, and the little book joined the other gifts in his collection.

With an afternoon at his disposal, he decided he'd better see something of London's cultural delights and made his way to the National Gallery. He loved the very idea of a place where all were welcome to view works of art, and couldn't help but think how fitting it would have been if he'd had Harry Gregson along with him. Back at Hanbury, of course, the boy would have glimpsed the paintings and sculptures in Lady Ludlow's possession, but could never have the sense that such things belonged to all, or that they were the result of talent, skill, and inspiration. Harry needed a trip to the National Gallery, thought Mr. Carter, and for that matter so did he.

In one of the rooms Mr. Carter happened to walk past a young woman, wearing a frown of concentration, who was trying to sketch an image from a painting on the opposite wall. He thought again of Miss Galindo, who had been known to carry her sketchbook along as she walked through the woods up to Hanbury Court, and suddenly realized he'd never asked to see any of her drawings, or found out what she sketched, aside from the occasional wild bee orchid. Indeed, he'd barely acknowledged Miss Galindo did anything outside his office – except for an occasion when they'd quarreled and he'd pointedly reminded her that she was a _milliner_. At the time he'd thought the observation fair and frank, but now couldn't escape the sense that it was merely condescending. Well, it had certainly nettled Miss Galindo, who'd informed him that she'd taken up her work out of necessity, not inclination.

Then he remembered something he had said to Harry before leaving Hanbury: that he would go to London when he was a man and could do as he pleased. Had that been the truth, or merely a tale told to reassure a child? Really, how much freedom was afforded to any man, or woman?

A new thought came to him: He'd been a prisoner of sorts himself, for that matter, in those weeks following the surgery, when helplessness and self-loathing had been his daily companions.

But even for all that, for all his doubts and fears, he'd been persuaded to make this trip to London, and it had restored a measure of his freedom, and not only that. If he had learned to stand and walk unaided again, he had also opened his eyes.

The truth was exactly as Dr. Morgan had said: Fate had struck him a blow, but it had also smiled upon him.

He had lived, perhaps as much due to the stubborn devotion of those he'd left back at Hanbury and Cranford. He had lived to walk again, to feel something like happiness stealing over him.

That night he dreamed he was in the National Gallery and seated opposite Miss Galindo, who was sketching his portrait with a pen and ink. He never saw what she had created, only her expression from behind the sketchbook. At length she looked down at her work, frowned, and said, "No, that won't do at all. We must begin again." And she tore off the sheet and started afresh.

* * *

There were moments, Anthony Beckett thought, when he believed he'd been a fool ever to worry about Mr. Carter. If there was no making the man what he once was, he'd at least adjusted to that contraption the doctors had fitted him with, and now there was surely no corner of the city safe from Mr. Carter's curiosity, not when he could roam about at will once more. And if he grew tired or uncomfortable, well, what else were the London cabs for?

Mr. Carter had lately gotten it into his head as well that Anthony would benefit from the sight of a few of London's finer buildings – St. Paul's, for example, and Westminster Abbey – and had proposed an excursion or two around the city before they were to depart for Hanbury. For all that Anthony was much more interested in the shops and markets of London, the hum of commerce, the comings and goings of the people, he held his tongue and went along with the plan. Besides, it was entertainment enough to listen to Mr. Carter holding forth on a subject, whether it was the design of a cathedral or the legacy of a poet, every time they drew close to a particularly interesting building or memorial.

Each having seen the other in convalescence, the two men had lost much of their formality, and over the course of the journey had begun to share their histories. Mr. Carter had learned, for instance, that Beckett had trained as a barber but had then gone into service, eventually taking a position in Liverpool, then another in Manchester. He didn't have much family in England; both mother and father had died, and his brothers and sisters had emigrated to America.

"Did you not wish to join them?"

"I was by far the youngest and stayed home. Besides, after Mam died, I had no money for passage."

"And why did you not remain in Manchester? Surely there were many opportunities there."

"I did not like Manchester, Mr. Carter. I should not like to work in London, either," he added. "It's all very well for those who live in fine houses and such, but there's many live in misery."

"Well, there's misery in Cranford, to be sure, though perhaps not on such a scale."

"Yes, sir, but I like Cranford, and the estate. There's good folk there."

"Well, we have our faults as well as our virtues, but no doubt you've noticed that. Still, I expect your brothers and sisters have done well for themselves in America. Where are they now?"

"New Jersey, sir. The cotton mills," he added, without expression, and Mr. Carter had to wonder if the factories in America were much like those he'd seen for himself in England.

"So you'd stop in Cranford, then, but I'll warn you that even Cranford will never remain as it is!"

"No, Mr. Carter, I don't expect that it would. Why, in five years, there will be more people, more shops, maybe another inn!"

"Mm. More custom for Miss Galindo, and perhaps competition."

"Miss Galindo?"

"Miss Galindo has a business of her own – a millinery shop."

"Does she? I should like to have a shop myself one day."

Beckett sounded so much like Harry Gregson -- "I wouldn't mind having an office," Harry had told him at their first meeting – that Mr. Carter had to smile.

The mention of Miss Galindo, though, had brought on the familiar feeling of guilt. She had been left a considerable share of the burden at Hanbury, and at an especially bad time. Her letters had intimated that while Lady Ludlow was making an effort to address her financial woes, at times the remedies appeared worse than the disease.

Well, it would not be so for long, he hoped. He and Beckett were on their way home, and things would change again, this time for the better.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	10. The Gordons Entertain

Many thanks to everyone for the interest, the reviews, feedback, and support.

Any verse quoted here is, as far as I know, safely in the public domain, but that ought not to stop you from buying your next book of poetry, and I leave it to the reader to determine who is better informed, Captain Brown or Miss Pole.

* * *

**Chapter 10**: **The Gordons Entertain**

"Carter! Mr. Carter!"

Imagine that. His first evening home in Cranford, and someone was already shouting after him as he navigated the street.

"There you are, Carter! Oh, it's good to see you, and looking so well!" cried Dr. Morgan, rushing up to shake his hand. Morgan was in fine form himself, having shed his old-fashioned doctor's wig and coat for nattier attire, and by his side was Mrs. Rose, out of widow's weeds now and looking a good deal brighter herself. _So this is what Morgan meant by "pleasant company." Well, well, well._

"Thank you, Dr. Morgan. Good evening, Mrs. Rose." Mr. Carter removed his hat.

"Good evening, Mr. Carter. How delightful to see you've returned! We'd begun to fear that London had quite stolen you away from us."

"Oh, Mrs. Rose, I can assure you that my heart is and always will be in Cheshire, and there's little that could keep me away for long."

"Talking of hearts, Carter, I'm happy to tell you that ours have not been idle while you were away," said Dr. Morgan, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Mrs. Rose has consented to become my wife."

It had been worth saying it, thought Morgan, just to see the look on Carter's face. But it was perfectly true. One marriage had followed another in Cranford this particular year, and there was no evidence the epidemic would cease any time soon! And happily, there was no means of inoculating against it, either…

"Then let me wish you joy, madam, and congratulate you, Dr. Morgan," said Mr. Carter, when he was able to speak. "I must confess no one gave me a hint in any correspondence I received in London."

Dr. Morgan laughed. "And no one thought to print it in the newspapers, eh? Well, we must have a good talk when you have the leisure. There's so much I'd like to ask you about your meetings in London, and of course you need to hear all our news – but we've already told you quite enough for one evening. Do come see me, Carter."

"That I will, Dr. Morgan."

* * *

_Manchester_

_Tuesday morning_

_My dear Carter:_

_What splendid news it was to hear you had turned up among us again, and that your trip to London was a success. I shall be looking forward to hearing your account of the journey when we meet again in Cranford._

_Speaking of which, I wish to take this opportunity to extend an invitation. You know that my Jessie recently wed, and that when she and the major went to church, it was a very quiet celebration. But there is no reason why the new-married couple should not entertain our good and loyal neighbors, and so the three of us wish to have a small party, Saturday week, to be precise. A very simple affair, mind you – just some refreshments and an evening in good company, with music and so forth. I would be very pleased if you would join us. Do say you'll come._

_With best regards,_

_H. Brown_

_

* * *

_

It was a curious thing, thought Miss Galindo, that Mrs. Gordon had come specially to the shop to see her that afternoon. Jessie Brown had never been one of her clients; the captain's modest means and famous frugality had meant no new bonnets for the late Miss Brown and her sister, and Jessie's contact with Miss Galindo had been confined to a greeting after church of a Sunday, or perhaps a brief conversation in the street.

But this afternoon, Jessie, now Mrs. Gordon, had appeared in the shop to make a most unexpected announcement. After they had exchanged pleasantries, and Miss Galindo had inquired after the captain and the major, Jessie had shyly presented her plan.

"As you know, Miss Galindo, the major and I are not long married, and Father was grieved he could not host a grand wedding. My husband and I tried to persuade him that we were content as we were; that the vows we had exchanged were what mattered, not a wedding breakfast! But all three of us – my father, my husband, and myself – did agree that we would like to gather some of our friends and neighbors in our home for a small party, and so we have planned one a week from Saturday. We should very much like you to join us."

It was most surprising, this invitation. Miss Galindo was not a near neighbor, and although she was on cordial terms with the captain, she had seen very little of the Gordons. Still, with this sweet, shy young woman standing before her, there was only one reply she could make.

"With pleasure, Mrs. Gordon. I would be delighted to come."

* * *

"Are you fond of reading, Miss Galindo? I mean of course not only prayer book and the edifying essay, but reading out of sheer joy."

Miss Galindo was surprised that Captain Brown addressed the question at her. He was so blunt.

"Why, yes, when I've the leisure to do it, I do enjoy reading."

"What do you like best to read, then? I'll wager you're fonder of verse than of prose, Miss Galindo. Would I be right in that?"

Miss Galindo smiled. "Your impressions are correct, Captain Brown. I do take great pleasure in poetry."

"Capital! Might we prevail upon you to read for us later this evening?"

Now Miss Galindo was thoroughly embarrassed, though only too willing to forgive Captain Brown, given his kindness. So she smiled and replied, "Really, Captain Brown, I'm certain there are others more suited to the task –"

"Task? But surely it would give us all such pleasure. You have a delightfully musical voice. Do say you will read for us."

"Then I will not refuse." She had gone very pink.

On this particular Saturday evening Captain Brown's modest sitting room was crowded with people as it rarely had been. Miss Matty Jenkyns, unable to refuse an invitation from her neighbor Captain Brown, had come to the party, bringing along her brother, Peter, and of course Miss Mary Smith. Jessie had invited her friend Miss Pole, unofficially the eyes and ears of Cranford, to join them. And most unusually, Edward Carter, just returned from London, was also in attendance.

Miss Pole, for all her macabre fascination with Dr. Harrison's medical practice, had proved uncharacteristically reticent concerning Mr. Carter's accident, surgery, and recuperation, and always kept a safe distance from the gentleman himself, as though amputations were something catching. And so it was that Mr. Carter found himself seated between Miss Galindo and Miss Smith, with Miss Matty just beyond.

"I do hope you will play for us this evening, Mrs. Gordon," Miss Matty was saying to Jessie.

"I will, if my husband will sing."

At this Miss Matty fairly clapped her hands. "If your husband will sing. Ah, how I wish Deborah were here among us again." Turning to Peter, she said, "I never saw Deborah so delighted as when Miss Jessie, as she was then, played the spinet as the major sang. What was that you sang that first evening, Major Gordon? I mean the song my sister so enjoyed, the one that set her tapping the rhythm on her saucer."

"I believe that was 'Loch Lomond,' Miss Matty," said the major. Then, with a kindly smile: "Perhaps, then, in remembrance of Miss Jenkyns, I'd best sing another Scots tune." He whispered to Jessie, who had by now seated herself at the spinet, and she selected a piece of music from her collection. With a glance towards her husband, she gently touched the keys, and they began "John Anderson, My Jo."

The major was singing in Scots dialect, to which only Jessie and Captain Brown were really accustomed. Still, his other listeners needed no tutoring; they could certainly recognize a love song, and respond with appropriately wistful smiles. The applause was heartfelt, too, when the major had concluded.

Rather unusually, Miss Galindo was the first to speak. "I do not know that song, Major Gordon, but it is certainly well-chosen. Very lovely, though I confess I didn't understand all of the text."

"It's by Robert Burns, Miss, and I too have always found it beautiful." The major continued, "It's a woman's address to her sweetheart, you see -- not when they are first courting, though, but after they've loved each other many years." And he involuntarily glanced over at Jessie, who beamed back at him.

"Ah, yes, many years --" began Captain Brown.

But at that moment Miss Matty was quietly wiping away sudden tears, a motion that did not go unnoticed by Miss Pole, Miss Smith, and Miss Galindo. The first two ladies knew Miss Matty's history, what memory had moved her to weep, whereas Miss Galindo only recognized the delicacy of the moment. But it was she who first sought merciful distraction.

"One thinks, for instance, of the story of Jacob and Rachel in the Bible, and how he worked to win her hand, and how the years of labor seemed brief to him, given his devotion," began Miss Galindo.

"Jacob?" said Captain Brown. "Eh, Miss Galindo, true enough, but did not Jacob also wed Rachel's sister, and as well take two other women, and sire a multitude of sons, at that? Now there's a complicated story, even if it is Holy Scripture" –

"Captain Brown, you are most provoking!" shrieked Miss Pole, forgetting for a moment Miss Matty's tears. "I am sure that if we consulted Reverend Hutton, he would assure us no such account is to be found in the Word of God. Men with harems! Most shocking –"

At this Peter Jenkyns exploded with laughter

Even Miss Galindo could not suppress a smile. "Poor Major and Mrs. Gordon! See how soon your music is forgotten while we quarrel about Scripture?"

"Or the faithfulness of men," added Mary Smith.

"Or the practice of polygamy." No one had expected Mr. Carter to speak, nor to assume such a matter-of-fact expression in discussing a provocative subject. All peace was therefore at an end, as the men roared with laughter and the women giggled.

By the time they had composed themselves, and finished wiping their eyes for an entirely new reason, someone thought to ask Mrs. Gordon to play for them once again. This time the major gallantly suggested that perhaps one of the ladies might favor the party with a song, but one by one the women refused, and when he made the same request to the men, they proved equally resistant.

"Very well. I know my duty." He leaned over, whispered in Jessie's ear once again, and then turned to face his audience once more.

"My love is like a red, red rose…"

_More Robert Burns, and that's just as it should be_, thought Captain Brown. _The ladies will certainly like it. Doesn't the major sound well tonight!_

Unaccustomed to parties, particularly on such an intimate scale, Mr. Carter was cultivating what he hoped was an interested expression, and offering a slight smile when anyone caught his eye.

"As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I…"

Mr. Carter didn't look particularly comfortable, thought Miss Galindo, and she wondered whether he regretted his decision to accept the captain's invitation. The responsibilities of the estate lay so heavily on him, now that he had returned from his journey, and he'd been so determined to overtake the work he had been forced to leave undone, that she had barely seen anything of him since his return. Indeed, they had hardly exchanged a word between themselves.

"And I will come again, my love,

Though it were ten thousand mile!"

At this song's conclusion, Miss Matty was no less moved than before. But this time she had resolved to master her emotions, or at least their display, and resolutely led the applause. "Quite beautiful, Major," she sighed, smiling, though the tears still glistened in her eyes.

But her brother too was visibly touched. "Well done, Major," said Mr. Jenkyns softly, then reached over to squeeze his sister's hand.

* * *

When the major and his wife had finished their song, most of the party repaired to the refreshment table – with Miss Pole protesting all the way that she simply ought not to have cake, then accepting first one slice, then another – leaving Miss Galindo and Mr. Carter to themselves, if briefly.

"You do not approve of the music, Mr. Carter?" she whispered.

"What? No, no, Major Gordon has a very fine voice indeed, and sounds well with Mrs. Gordon's accompaniment. But an evening's entertainment such as this is quite rare for me, you see, and I find I know so little of music."

"I confess I am not astonished to hear you say that, Mr. Carter. Your devotion to your work surely allows little time for indulgence in artistic pleasures of any sort." She had put a most unsettling emphasis on the word_ pleasures_, but her expression was innocent enough – yes, that deceptively mild look he had often seen her wear when she was constructing some argument. "I suppose even Lady Ludlow's collection of pictures and sculpture is as alien to you as Major Gordon's Scottish songs. But you are of a practical bent, and perhaps could find better uses for paint, wood, canvas, and stone."

"That is neither true nor fair, Miss Galindo. Firstly, it is not for me to approve or disapprove of my lady's possessions. Secondly, I can see the value of a painting and of a sculpture, and found time to enjoy both in London."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, yes. When I was not keeping appointments, I visited the National Gallery, and as well some of the architectural wonders of London." But that pleasure had been nothing compared to the satisfaction now of genuinely astonishing Miss Galindo, he thought.

Then he smiled, leaned towards her, and said, in a whisper, "Mr. Beckett accompanied me on one or two of those excursions, though I suspect it was more an act of charity than enthusiasm."

Miss Galindo smiled. Poor Anthony! Yes, she could well envision what had happened…

"But you are an artist yourself, Miss Galindo, and surely have seen more pictures, more statues, more cathedrals than I have ever beheld."

"I merely draw and paint, Mr. Carter, and do not consider myself an artist by any means! But I have indeed been to many a gallery, museum, and church, in various cities."

"In England, Miss Galindo? Or perhaps abroad?"

"Well, I have been to London, Mr. Carter, and to the National Gallery, as you have, but my happiest memory is of accompanying my parents to the continent." Smiling to herself, she continued, "I was but 17 then. My mother and especially my father were determined that I should understand something of great art, and consequently led me through Burgundy and Bavaria, Tuscany and Umbria, and many other places besides, in pursuit of beauty. Oh, how my mother and I laughed to see my father peering through his spectacles at a statue or fresco, and holding forth seriously and breathlessly, as if he'd never have time enough to explain to us how Saint Francis was rendered on an Italian wall, or Saint Catherine carved for a niche in a German cathedral!" She paused suddenly, her eyes filling with tears.

"Go on, Miss Galindo," said Mr. Carter gently.

She would not meet his eye, but spoke softly yet clearly. "We did not realize my father was entirely correct. There was not time enough."

At that moment Miss Matty returned to them and settled herself in beside Mr. Carter. "Do not let me disturb your conversation. Pray go on with what you were discussing."

"We were talking of our travels, Miss Matty. As you know, Mr. Carter has lately returned from London."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Carter, how wonderful it is that you have come back to us! I must say I have had quite enough of people leaving Cranford. But you know, of course" – and Miss Matty dropped her voice – "that Major and Mrs. Gordon are going to Scotland in the new year, and Captain Brown will be quite alone. I am happy for the Gordons – the major has inherited some property, you see – but I do not know how the captain shall bear it."

"I am sure Captain Brown will value the company of his friends and neighbors all the more, though they cannot take the place of a daughter," observed Miss Galindo.

"No indeed," said Miss Matty. "And of course it was not long ago that he lost Miss Brown. Oh, dear!"

"Come now, Miss Matty," murmured Miss Galindo. "Do not distress yourself. You know the captain's temperament. He is more likely to raise our spirits than to allow his own to be dampened."

"He is a good soul, to be sure. Mind you, my sister never knew what to make of his manners! But he always has been a valuable neighbor." Miss Matty sighed, then said, as briskly as she could manage, "Well, when Jessie and the major have departed for Scotland, the captain will have Peter and myself and of course dear Mary for friends, as well as your own good selves, so perhaps he'll not be so very lonely."

* * *

The evening had been an experiment of sorts, and Mr. Carter was tempted to pronounce it a success. If he still felt a bit self-conscious in company, even among such a small group, at least there had been the compensatory pleasures of music, conversation, storytelling and poetry. Mrs. Gordon had played, Major Gordon had sung, and then Peter Jenkyns had told a few stories of India, proving quite the raconteur, and quite shocking Miss Pole in the process.

Afterwards Captain Brown had cajoled Miss Galindo to read a few poems aloud –- "Something cheerful, mind you; we want nothing gloomy this fine evening! -- and had been delighted when she agreed. Then she had passed the book to Mr. Carter, as if that were the natural order of things, and so he too had read aloud to the company – willingly, for the volume of verse, like everything in Mrs. Gordon's modest library, had been chosen with taste and with care, and his audience was most receptive.

Perhaps Miss Galindo was right; there were too few such pleasures in his life. He'd given himself wholly to the demands of work, to the exclusion of nearly all else – all else but the loneliness that had followed him up and down the years.

Added to that was the self-consciousness he now felt, the dread of probing questions or pitying looks. He had very nearly stayed home this evening. Strange, wasn't it, that he had to be stern with himself just to keep a social engagement!

But whatever awkwardness he felt at the beginning had given way as the evening unfolded in a series of revelations and vignettes – the Gordons' duets, Miss Matty's fretting, Miss Pole's pronouncements, even Miss Galindo and her memories – though now he had to recall that they had never really finished their conversation.

And there had been another surprise as well. Captain Brown had been extraordinarily attentive to Miss Galindo throughout the evening. He had taken pains to discover the lady's tastes and interests -- and, if not diplomatic in doing so, was at least remarkably efficient, learning in a few hours what Mr. Carter had required years of acquaintance to discover – and was bold with the compliments and teasing as well. And the captain had taken the seat next to Miss Galindo for much of the evening. Mr. Carter, who'd been on her other side, had noticed that too.

As for Miss Galindo, while she had blushed very prettily at Brown's compliments, she hadn't exactly encouraged him, at least to Carter's unpracticed eye. It was not that she'd been impolite – she was clearly too well bred and too sensitive for that – but she'd always sought to advance the conversation past embarrassing topics, whatever form they took. And there _had_ been embarrassing topics; Captain Brown had seen to that. It was a strange way to behave, thought Mr. Carter, unless Captain Brown was –

Good God, he could not be thinking of that.

It could not be so. Brown wouldn't marry again, not with his modest income, and if he did go seeking a wife, it would not be Laurentia Galindo. And surely the lady would not have him if he --

But as if presenting its case before a magistrate, another voice in Mr. Carter's mind protested at that. No, perhaps she _would_ have him. Perhaps she simply liked him. The captain was a tremendously fine fellow, very kind, and the word in Cranford was that he was genuinely heroic as well. He had saved Charles Maulver's life back in the day, or so the story went. Valor, kindness – perhaps that would win the heart of the lady, and one day when he came home from Manchester, she would be waiting --

Good God, he must not think these things. He must not.

* * *

It was most unusual, Miss Galindo thought, that she should meet with Mr. Carter during an evening party. But then, he and Captain Brown had become fast friends over the past months, and perhaps it was not so very strange that Mr. Carter should be welcomed as a guest in the captain's home.

And if Mr. Carter had displayed no marked enthusiasm for the music, it was quite another matter when he consented to read aloud to them. That had gone down very well, Miss Galindo thought. Mr. Carter read poetry with great sensitivity and warmth – most astonishing, when she had been used to hearing him give instructions, requests, even commands. Brusque, severe, practical Mr. Carter reading verse? But it was so, and he had a pleasing voice too, a very pleasing voice.

And there had been other revelations as well -- Mr. Carter's interest in art, for instance, had astonished her, though now she recalled they'd not had a chance to pursue it, not properly, as Miss Matty had returned in the middle of their tête-à-tête.

One thing that had puzzled her, though, was the marked degree of attention Captain Brown had paid to her throughout the evening – the compliments, the entreaties, the teasing. She'd rather hoped no one else had noticed, but there was little chance of that, given how often she'd felt herself blushing.

Well, she and the captain had been on friendly terms for some time, and perhaps he thought the attention might make her feel welcome. But somehow she couldn't forget how worried Miss Matty had been about Jessie's imminent departure, and the prospect of a lonely, bereft Captain Brown.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	11. Miss Galindo Attunes to the Times

Many thanks to all who have taken the time to read and review. Your kind remarks are much appreciated.

Dedicated to those who, like Harry Gregson, found themselves supporting their families at an early age.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Miss Galindo Attunes to the Times**

He had thought his news would please her. They had enjoyed a better harvest than expected this year, thus improving Hanbury Court's financial situation, at least temporarily, and as a result there was less urgency to secure positions for staff who were no longer vital to the running of the estate. He therefore had told her that there was less correspondence to conduct, and as a result she'd have fewer hours at the office and more time to fulfill commissions for her own business in Cranford.

He thought she'd be delighted to relinquish a few burdens, remembering how difficult she'd found it to fulfill her duties at Hanbury and then complete all her work in time for the May Day observances the past spring.

But now, in the autumn, she had stood before him wearing an expression somewhere between hurt and confusion. "You are not happy with my work here, Mr. Carter?"

"I did not say that, Miss Galindo. You have borne a considerable burden over these past months, for which my lady is most grateful – as am I," he added, with a nod and a slight smile. "But it is time we relieved you of some of that, is it not? You'll be coming to Hanbury less often, and for shorter periods of time, and thus can attend to your own affairs. Surely that must please you."

* * *

She saw how it was. If anything, Mr. Carter's duties around the estate had increased since his full recovery; he was out and about Hanbury most of the day, and only spoke to her briefly and distractedly -- that is, when he was not conferring with Lady Ludlow. Perhaps this meant permanent change for Hanbury, an alteration in the way the estate was run, and perhaps Mr. Carter saw his opportunity to order his office the way that suited him – which must, of necessity, see her removed from the position he had never asked her to fill.

What hurt the most was the pretense that any changes were made to please her. After all that had passed between them, she'd have thought he'd not hesitate to make blunt pronouncements. If he'd at least said openly that Lady Ludlow had approved the training of another clerk – Anthony, for instance, or perhaps even Harry, though she very much doubted her ladyship would countenance that -- she would have understood him. But this feigned kindness was more than she could bear.

* * *

By late in the day she was so distracted by this turn of events that she walked halfway home before she remembered that she'd left several items of correspondence behind on her desk. Well, there was nothing for it; she'd have to return to the office at Hanbury, and immediately.

By the time she had retraced her steps, the light was growing dim. She opened the office door and gave a startled gasp. Someone was sitting at one of the desks.

Harry Gregson jumped to his feet and looked back at her, fully as rattled as she was.

"Harry! What are you doing here, and at this hour?"

"It's all right, Miss. My work is all done. And I scraped my boots off first, too, before I came in. See?" said Harry, holding up one foot for her inspection.

Miss Galindo suppressed a desire to laugh. "Harry, that is not what I meant. I am asking how you came to be in the office at all."

Harry looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Carter said it was all right. I come here sometimes to talk to him, you see, and read." He held up the book. "Look what he brought back from London, Miss."

"**Aesop's Fables**. That is a fine thing, Harry. Are you enjoying it?"

"Oh, yes, Miss, and I love the pictures, too. Look at this lion. Have you ever seen a real one?"

"No, Harry, only statues. You'd have to go to a zoo, wouldn't you, or perhaps abroad, to see a real lion."

"I'd like to do that someday." Harry put the book down on the desk. "Miss Galindo –"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You won't tell anyone I was here, will you? I don't want Mr. Carter to get in trouble."

"Harry, Mr. Carter is not in trouble, and neither are you, and you do not need to worry about me."

The door suddenly opened, both of them jumped, and Miss Galindo gave another little gasp.

But this time it was only Anthony Beckett standing in the doorway. He looked from one pair of guilty eyes to the other.

"Excuse me, Miss. I was just looking for Mr. Carter."

"I have not seen him, Anthony – well, not since earlier today," she said wincing a little at the thought at what had transpired then.

"Well, I expect he'll be here shortly." Anthony looked toward Harry, gave him a wink, and then turned back to Miss Galindo. "Oh, and don't worry, Miss. I know about the arrangement."

"What arrangement?"

Anthony turned pale. "Oh, Miss, I thought –"

"And I still know nothing about it." She smiled, a little wickedly. "I hope you are better at keeping secrets from Lady Ludlow than you are from me, Anthony," she said. "And with that, I bid you good evening."

"Good evening, Miss."

"Good evening, Miss."

* * *

"I don't understand, Mr. Carter. If ava- -- ava- --"

"'Avarice,' Harry."

"If avarice is a sin, does that mean it's bad to want money?"

"No, Harry, it isn't a sin to want money, as long as it comes to you in honorable ways – such as by working, for instance. And ambition is not a sin either, for that matter."

"What's ambition, Mr. Carter?"

"Wanting to better yourself. Wanting to achieve something, create something, do some important work. Those are all good things. Now pride and greed and envy – that's where we stumble."

The door to the office suddenly flew open. Mr. Carter automatically rose to his feet, a little stiffly, and Harry followed suit.

But it was not Lady Ludlow on an unexpected visit.

"Miss Galindo! What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Carter; that was not my intent. I merely came to collect some papers I had left behind." She had again walked halfway home before realizing that the correspondence she needed was still lying on her desk.

"Very well." Carter suddenly realized that if he was startled to see her, she did not seem in the least astonished to find him and Harry both in the office.

Harry spoke up, as if reading his thoughts. "It's all right, Mr. Carter. She knows."

"You mean 'Miss Galindo' knows, Harry," said Mr. Carter.

"Yes, sir. That's what I was telling you."

"Oh, never mind, Harry. I'll explain later." He turned back to Miss Galindo, who was gathering up papers from her desk. "Miss Galindo, you cannot mean to walk home alone, through the woods, no less, when night has already fallen."

"Really, Mr. Carter, this is Cranford, not London. I am hardly likely to be carried off by brigands."

"I am not concerned by what is likely, but what is appropriate. Beckett!"

"Sir?" Anthony Beckett appeared from the hallway.

"There's a gig outside, Beckett. Can you drive?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I want you to take Miss Galindo safely home, then come back here."

"Really, Mr. Carter, I do not want to have Anthony sent all the way into town and back again. "

"I am not going to discuss this any further, Miss Galindo, and I am not sending you off into the darkness without an escort. Come along." He picked up his walking stick and led the way to the door.

"Good night, Miss," called Harry from the desk.

"Good night, Harry," said Miss Galindo over her shoulder, as she disappeared from his view.

* * *

Outside Mr. Carter was walking briskly towards the gig.

"Mr. Carter." He stopped and turned around. "Mr. Carter." She dropped her voice. "You need not worry that I will reveal anything to Lady Ludlow about – well, about Harry's lessons. Surely you do not believe I would." She had tilted her face up to his and was standing very near to him in the darkness.

"No, I do not believe you would, though I suspect you don't approve."

"Mr. Carter, it is not for me to approve or disapprove of the decisions you take. I only worry that this will all end in tears. Harry has been put to work in the cowshed, with the promise that he might hold that position all of his life, and you show him glimpses of another world, something far beyond the manual labor he faces daily. It seems almost cruel to place that prospect before him when he --"

"And so you think I should just leave Harry to his hours of backbreaking labor, and being the support of his family, when he is but 11 years old and has no inkling of the opportunities that might open to him if he had an education? Do not speak to me of cruelty, Miss Galindo, or of the confines of class or education. I would say you are in no position to judge either."

"That is most unfair, Mr. Carter, most unfair, and spoken in ignorance." She was fairly trembling with rage. "But I will not waste your valuable time in defending myself against that judgment. I must go home, and you must return to your pupil." And she spun around and proceeded towards the gig. Beckett had already climbed up and was waiting to assist her.

Mr. Carter kept up with her and when they reached the gig, he made an instantaneous decision and threw his walking stick to the ground. "Give me your hand, Miss Galindo." Taking her hand firmly in his, he placed his other hand at her waist to guide her upwards, and with Beckett's help she climbed onto the gig.

Even in the darkness Mr. Carter could see her expression. She was not over her pique.

"Good night, Miss Galindo, and thank you." She made no reply to him, and Anthony said, "I'll return directly, Mr. Carter."

"Good man, Beckett." And they drove off, leaving him standing in the darkness.

* * *

"Anthony, you are not used to driving the gig, are you?"

"I learn quickly, Miss. Besides, haven't I seen it done a thousand times?"

Miss Galindo tightened her grip on the seat, and Beckett grinned. "Don't worry, Miss. You're safe enough with me." He felt a little of the tension dissolve between them. Besides, it was Mr. Carter she was angry with, not him, though he wasn't sure why. Their voices had been too low for him to catch any of the conversation.

"It's the millinery shop, isn't it, Miss?"

"Why, yes, it is, Anthony. How did you know that?"

"Mr. Carter spoke of it when we were coming back from London."

"Oh, he did, did he? Most surprising. He doesn't think much of how I earn my daily bread."

"He said you had a business of your own."

"Indeed."

"You serve Lady Ludlow, and have your own business besides. That's a lot of work."

"Well, I soon shall have some respite, as Mr. Carter, though perhaps not Lady Ludlow, requires my services less than before."

"Yes, Mr. Carter's fully recovered," said Anthony happily. "But he has so much to do still. Maybe he'll change his mind about how much he needs you."

"That's doubtful. I expect to spend less time at Hanbury, not more."

Now was the time. "Miss, if you are going to be in town more, I wondered if I might ask a favor."

This was most unexpected. "A favor, Anthony? What do you mean?"

"Miss, I was wondering if you could show me how to cast accounts, how to write in a fine hand, what's involved in the running of a shop. I'd like you to teach me what to do, like Mr. Carter teaches Harry. I have a little money saved, you see, and I could pay –"

"I don't want your money, Anthony," she said, more harshly than she had intended. He kept to a chastened silence for some minutes, and she added, more softly, "What I mean is that if I instructed you, I'd only accept payment in kind – tasks performed in the maintenance of the shop, for instance, or errands run, or perhaps some other duties. There is no need for us to speak of money."

"I wanted this to be proper, Miss. I didn't want charity."

"I'm not offering charity." _I'm not offering much of anything,_ she thought.

"Does that mean you'll do it, Miss? Does that mean we can start soon? This Sunday?"

She sighed. "I'm going to have to think about this for a day or two, Anthony." She hesitated, not wanting to say what had crossed her mind, but there was nothing else for it. "One thing you must understand is that if you come to visit my shop, regardless of the reason, it will not remain a secret. This is Cranford, Anthony, and if you so much as make a pot of tea, within five minutes someone will be reporting that fact, what sort of tea it was, and whether the water took especially long to boil. This is a village, not the city. We have nothing else to do but to work and discuss each other's business."

Anthony smiled. "But I quite like it here, Miss. And as for the gossiping -- well, Miss, you can trust me."

"I know I can trust you." She was surprised at how quickly she'd agreed with him. Oh, he was a bit of a scamp, but there was surely no harm in him. "But what I cannot do is control anyone else. Lady Ludlow, for instance, will surely discover what you are about, and have words with me, and a dismissal for you. Did you not think of that?"

"Oh, Miss, I'm not a fool. And I know something else." He let her curiosity build for a moment before continuing. "I can see that there are fewer and fewer servants at Hanbury. Lady Ludlow's not taking people on; she's sending them away. It's a miracle I still have my place. Mr. Carter doesn't need me anymore, not really, and has to struggle to find work for me to do."

"Such as driving me back to Cranford." A fresh wave of anger came over her, but she decided to pursue another equally uncomfortable subject. "Did you not think to have Mr. Carter train you up as his clerk?"

Anthony actually laughed. "Oh, Miss, you can't mean that. Mr. Carter is a good man, and I like him very much, but I want to be my own master, and choose my own teacher, for that matter. And Mr. Carter's got other things to think about, too." He remembered something else. "Miss, I know it's a lot to ask of you, that you teach me, but if there's any way I could ever help afterwards, I promise you –"

"You don't need to make any promises for now, Anthony. There's still a lot I need to consider. But I will give you my answer shortly."

"Thank you, Miss. I am grateful."

They had reached the streets of Cranford now, and Miss Galindo directed him to the spot where her shop and rooms lay. Anthony stopped the gig, leaped down, and offered her his hand as she descended. She had fairly spent the evening being passed on and off this vehicle, she thought, with the assistance of Mr. Carter and Mr. Beckett.

"I am sorry Mr. Carter put you to the trouble of bringing me back, but I thank you," she said, and smiled for what seemed like the first time in hours.

"It was no trouble at all, Miss." He smiled back at her. They understood each other; he could see that.

She said, after a pause, "I don't suppose you know how to stitch caps."

He grinned. "As I said, Miss, I learn quickly."

* * *

Miss Galindo lay in bed, waiting for sleep to overtake her, and reflected over the events of the past few hours. Anthony Beckett's request had very much taken her by surprise, and yet it all seemed of a piece with what had transpired that evening.

She saw how things were. Mr. Carter had proceeded with Harry's education, whether Lady Ludlow had consented or not, and used his office as a classroom. When Miss Galindo had walked in, he and Harry had been companionably seated across from one another, with **Aesop's Fables** open on the table before them, and the remains of a simple supper scattered about.

_Ambition is not a sin_.

Even Harry understood what they were doing must remain secret, though he probably didn't realize what it might mean. An 11-year-old knew suffering only in the simplest ways – a blow from his father, a scolding from his mother – and could not possibly see what future stretched before him, what doors might be shut to him once he'd grown to manhood and there was no friendly mentor at his side.

Still, Miss Galindo had to admit there was something very wrong in that. She thought of how Lady Ludlow conducted interviews, intoning the name of the hapless person before her, as though she were the Lord God at the Last Judgment. And she informed her listeners what would become of them, too – offering a position to Harry Gregson, refusing one to young Margaret Gidman, on the grounds that the girl was "fit only for trade."

By what right did she make such decisions? By her rank, by her power, by her will. But was there some moral underpinning to any of that? Miss Galindo was no longer certain.

Well, if her ladyship was unafraid to exercise such power as remained to a woman, perhaps it was time that she did the same, after a fashion. She would help Anthony, and if trouble arose in so doing, she would deal with that as it came.

And as for Mr. Carter, within but a few hours he had as good as declared her superfluous to the running of the estate, and provided ample evidence that he neither trusted her judgment nor relied on her discretion. He had taken Anthony into his confidence, but not herself, after all. Yes, she saw how things stood.

And the tears at last ran down her face, ceasing only when she drifted off into sleep.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	12. Lady Ludlow's Penance

Disclaimer: The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC version of **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no claim to or affiliation with the source material.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Readers of Mrs. Gaskell will recognize the liberties I have taken with the characters from **My Lady Ludlow**. In fact I have chosen to base my depiction of Miss Galindo in particular on Heidi Thomas's script and Emma Fielding's portrayal, and on my own imagination.

* * *

Wherein the proper order of the world is undone.

**Chapter 12:** **Lady Ludlow's Penance:**

"Have you heard what they are saying about the milliner?" Mrs. Johnson asked of Miss Pole one afternoon at Johnson's Universal Stores.

"One never hears anything in particular said at all about Miss Galindo, Mrs. Johnson. She is a quiet sort of lady, and excites no comment," replied Miss Pole, rummaging through a selection of new gloves.

"Except for on the day the railway accident occurred, Miss Pole," observed Mrs. Forrester. "Everyone said Miss Galindo actually ran after the cart when they brought in poor Mr. Carter and Captain Brown, and that she was close to fainting when she saw what had become of those two brave gentlemen."

"I had quite forgotten that, Mrs. Forrester." Miss Pole dropped her voice. "Indeed, I heard she rallied and then assisted Dr. Harrison herself –"

"Oh, Miss Pole, that's an exaggeration," said Mrs. Morgan, who had recently wed Dr. Harrison's cousin. "She and Miss Smith looked after Mr. Carter following the operation; that is all."

"Yes. Well, even that prospect alone makes one feel quite faint," said Miss Pole, fanning herself. "Miss Galindo must have had uncommon courage to have endured it."

"I do not know that she has courage, Miss Pole," sniffed Mrs. Johnson, "but I do know that she has not done with seeking the company of men. That Beckett fellow, the one who assists Mr. Carter, has been seen coming and going from Miss Galindo's shop, and at unusual times, too."

"'Unusual times,' you say? Well, Miss Galindo is in Lady Ludlow's employ, and Mr. Beckett too. Surely he is merely there in his capacity as a servant -- on a commission from her ladyship, perhaps, or performing errands on behalf of Hanbury Court," said Miss Pole.

"Humph. I do not know about that. But I do know she's a decade his senior, if she's a day. What can she be thinking of?"

At this Mrs. Morgan flushed a deep red, remembering her own misreading of Dr. Harrison's behavior. "Well, Mrs. Johnson, there are times when a young man does indeed choose to pay his attentions to a lady of mature years --"

"Yes, indeed, such things have been known to happen," put in Mrs. Forrester, with a knowing smile. "Did you never hear the story of Eleanor of Aquitaine and King Henry, Mrs. Johnson?"

At that the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson could not keep silent. "Do not draw absurd comparisons, Mrs. Forrester. Laurentia Galindo may be a baronet's daughter, but she is most certainly not a queen, nor is she likely to have men composing poems and songs in her honor." _Or doing anything worse, _Mrs. Jamieson thought to herself, remembering a few of the more provocative details of Eleanor's biography.

"Really, Mrs. Jamieson, that is too unkind. I have observed firsthand how various men of the village hold Miss Galindo in high regard, though whether they are praising her in verse, I cannot say." Miss Pole mentally tallied a list. "There's Sir Charles Maulver, of course. And I know for a fact that Captain Brown has the greatest respect for her, and so does Mr. Jenkyns, and I dare say Major Gordon as well, and Mr. Carter too."

"Mr. Carter! Well, Miss Galindo certainly has made some impressive conquests, Miss Pole, though I haven't heard that anyone has made a declaration," said Mrs. Johnson sourly.

"To be fair, Major Gordon is married," began Mrs. Morgan.

"I said nothing about 'conquests,' Mrs. Johnson," said Miss Pole, wearily. "Nor did I mean to imply any attachments. But I have observed Miss Galindo for a long time, and can report that the men have never treated her with anything but the greatest delicacy and kindness, which is precisely what she returns to them."

"Oh, indeed, Mrs. Johnson, I think we need not fear that Miss Galindo would ever do anything immoral or immodest," said Mrs. Forrester warmly. "Surely there is an entirely innocent explanation for Mr. Beckett's visits to her shop."

Mrs. Johnson snorted. "I see nothing innocent in any of this, Mrs. Forrester. Miss Galindo and that Irishman. Fancy that!"

"Irishman! Why, Mr. Beckett is from –"

"But then, what does it matter where he's from?" said Mrs. Johnson, interrupting an indignant Mrs. Forrester. "An unmarried lady ought not to be receiving visits from a young man of that class, and in her rooms, and on the Sabbath day, and there's an end of it."

* * *

"Come in, my dear."

Lady Ludlow thought she detected a slightly guilty look in Laurentia Galindo's eyes as the younger woman entered the room, though she was smiling softly.

"Please sit down, Laurentia." Miss Galindo felt an uncomfortable frisson of fear pass through her body. Her ladyship's words were gentle, and yet there was something disconcerting in her gaze.

"You can surely imagine why I have sent for you, Laurentia," she said after a little pause. "Stories have a way of circulating through this community so that even I cannot escape them."

_So she knows, _thought Miss Galindo. She clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling.

"Today Anthony Beckett gave his notice and informed me that he has taken a position with Mr. Goddard in town. On my questioning, he refused to discuss what had transpired between the two of you, or to even acknowledge any particular contacts, but you can guess what I have been hearing. You have been instructing him, in private and in secret."

"Yes, my lady," said Miss Galindo softly.

"Laurentia," said Lady Ludlow, pausing, as though struggling for words, "Laurentia, I understand that your father brought you up with a certain philosophy, but I never thought you'd put it into practice in such a fashion. Or perhaps the influence of Mr. Carter, and of his more radical notions, is stronger than I had imagined, and your head has been turned."

Miss Galindo clasped her hands together ever more tightly. "No, my lady. I took the decision entirely on my own, and without Mr. Carter's knowledge. Indeed, he probably would have counseled against it, had I revealed the plan to him."

"Possibly. Possibly not, for I know Mr. Carter's sentiments concerning education. And you know mine. I make it a rule to employ only those who are suitably trained for their positions, but not beyond their station in life. Such is the proper order of the world."

"Oh, Lady Ludlow, let us not speak of the proper order of the world," replied Miss Galindo quietly. She looked down at her hands. "Indeed, I think both of us know that what we call the proper order of the world is but a fragile thing."

"Only if we make it so, Laurentia. If we honorably fulfill our duties, things will unfold as they ought."

Miss Galindo looked up. "And did my parents fulfill their duties, and act honorably?"

"Oh, Laurentia," murmured Lady Ludlow. "I did not mean you to understand that --"

"What became of my parents' dearest plans, given the proper order of the world? Think of what they sought to make possible, what they did for my brothers and sister, and indeed for myself. Tell me what fates were determined for us, given the proper order of the world.

"My parents, Lady Ludlow, saw to it that I was taught French, Italian, and German, and drawing and dancing, and all that a young lady ought to know, and much more. My father took such pride in what he fancied was my cleverness, and my mother merely believed she would secure me a good marriage, or at least what she regarded as such, that I might spend the years afterwards bringing up my own daughters and of course sons, teaching them all I'd learned.

"There were to be no children, Lady Ludlow. There was to be no marriage. And the family in which I had happily lived was to be no more as well. It was as though that world had never existed.

"And what of all I was taught? What use is any of it? You know the manner in which I make my living. I am, as you might say, fit only for trade."

Lady Ludlow sat frozen, unable to make reply.

Miss Galindo smiled sadly. "And if anyone wishes to seek my counsel, to ask for instruction in how to keep accounts and run a shop, it is not for Mr. Carter or even you to deny such a request. Should I not do even that which remains within my power?"

"Laurentia." Lady Ludlow laid her hand on Miss Galindo's. "You speak of ideals, and yet the world may judge you harshly should you attempt to put them into practice. What then, my dear?"

"This was a business matter, nothing more, and surely that is understood."

"You are too generous, my dear. There are many who will not see it in those terms."

"I fear you are right in that, my lady," she said quietly. They sat in silence for a few moments before she spoke again. "I understand that this must put an end to my association with Hanbury Court."

"No, Laurentia. That is not what I meant. Wherever I make my home, I will always receive you."

Miss Galindo was unable to speak but raised a hand to her eyes, as though shielding them against the light. Lady Ludlow reached for her other hand and for a long moment clasped it tightly.

* * *

She had done nothing wrong, she said. Lady Ludlow, for all her feelings about what had transpired, did not have the heart to attempt to convince her otherwise, or to offer words of reproach. Perhaps Miss Galindo would find defiance a worthy weapon when all the gossip of Cranford was arrayed against her, though her ladyship very much doubted that.

She doubted it all the more when the conversation took a most unexpected turn.

"I did not think, Laurentia," she said when Miss Galindo's tears had subsided, "to discover that you and Mr. Carter are cut from the same cloth. It is curious, but perhaps I ought not to be astonished."

Miss Galindo had colored, and said quietly, "I am not persuaded that that is the case, Lady Ludlow."

"Are you not? I think I see a similarity in your endeavors."

"Indeed not. Mr. Carter would likely have objected to what I did, much as he has ever objected to my presence in the office. I dare say I have never been able to convince him of my worth."

"Surely you do not believe that, Laurentia."

"Indeed I do." She continued, in a low voice, as if to herself, "And now -- and now perhaps it is best to let Mr. Carter have his way. He shall have a clerk of his own choosing, and I shall return to Cranford, and face my accusers, if that is indeed what they are. That amounts to work enough for me, and a burden removed from Mr. Carter."

* * *

It was turning into a rather wet day, and yet Miss Galindo declined when Lady Ludlow offered to have her conveyed back to Cranford. She would outwalk the rain, she assured her ladyship, and besides the exercise would be of benefit. Lady Ludlow watched her leave and thought of pilgrims subjecting themselves to unimaginable hardships. She would have to be careful not to let Laurentia carry this too far.

Miss Galindo could perhaps outwalk the rain, but not what was waiting to confront her in solitary thought -- not self-reproach, for she had done nothing wrong, but a painful, rigorous honesty that demanded that she admit it had never been mere kindness that motivated her to accept Anthony's plan. Anger, a defiant anger she had nurtured for some time, had moved her to act.

And yet now, as she left the grounds of Hanbury, possibly for the final time, she lacked the spirit to uncover the source of that anger. And her heart was heavy at the realization that her world had again wholly changed, but this time at her own instigation.

* * *

It had begun raining heavily that afternoon by the time Edward Carter returned from his travels about the Hanbury estate and presented himself at the main house for a meeting with Lady Ludlow. He was nearly drenched and shuddering from the cold, and would gladly have avoided any further interviews, even with her ladyship. But she had particularly requested that he speak to her on his return.

To his relief, she had arranged to receive him in a small parlor in which a fire was already burning brightly, the economies at Hanbury having fortunately not extended so far as to deny Lady Ludlow basic comforts.

It was dusk, and the light from the fire was all that illuminated the room as they stood opposite each other. "Let us sit down, Mr. Carter," she said, and then glanced upwards at his rugged and rain-soaked face, the damp brown hair about his brow. "And let us draw closer to the fire."

When they had settled into their chairs, she continued, "I have a most unexpected turn of events to discuss with you. Possibly you are not aware, Mr. Carter, that Laurentia Galindo has been providing instruction to Anthony Beckett in matters of business, of trade. I did not know he could even read and write; those were not my concerns when I engaged him to assist you.

"I thought I detected your influence in this scheme, Mr. Carter, but when I confronted Laurentia, she was most insistent that you knew nothing of it. Is that true?"

"My lady, I assure you I would have never permitted such a thing. And yet –"

"Continue, Mr. Carter."

"My lady, I did not know what Miss Galindo and Mr. Beckett were about, and yet I have no doubt that she acted out of the best possible intentions. I am sure there is nothing to reproach her for."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I am well acquainted with Miss Galindo's character, and to a lesser degree Beckett's as well."

"Mr. Carter, I have known Laurentia Galindo since she was an infant, and can claim better knowledge of her character than do you. While I would not have acted as she did, I have no doubt whatsoever that her motives were kind."

"I must also say that it is likely my fault that any such scheme developed at all, my lady."

"Indeed?"

"It was I who informed Beckett that Miss Galindo was a milliner, and evidently he thought she could teach him what he needed to know about the running of a shop."

He added, "There is something more, my lady." This would be difficult, and was best done quickly.

"And what is that, Mr. Carter?"

"If you disapprove of Miss Galindo's decision to assist Mr. Beckett, you would be infinitely more displeased with my own to continue teaching Harry Gregson. I know you do not approve, and I have continued in defiance of your wishes."

"I see."

He rose slowly from his chair. "I understand, madam, that with this admission you will be unable to do anything but discharge me."

The light from the fire seemed to set her eyes ablaze, and yet her voice, when it came, was soft, barely audible. "You understand no such thing, Mr. Carter. Your situation is yours to keep, for as long as you are able, for as long as you wish it."

"My lady, I do not understand."

"No. No, Mr. Carter, you do not," she said simply.

He continued, perplexed. "I have defied you, at length, over a period of months, and this after I accepted your kindness during my convalescence – indeed, caused you great expense and inconvenience. If you will not accept my resignation, at least accept payment for an honest debt –"

"An honest debt," she hissed. "Do not speak to me, Mr. Carter, of 'honest debts.'

"Did you not realize that Captain Brown would tell me why you were present at the railway site when the explosion occurred, and that I would learn you were there entirely on my behalf, for my financial benefit, though not on my orders? Do you not understand that you would be whole and well, had I not subjected you to the twin and equally impossible demands of Septimus's requests and the mortgage on Hanbury Court?"

She turned her eyes again towards the fire and continued, "I heard the flattery of Dr. Morgan, of all the others. They praised my devotion to you, told me no son could have been treated more tenderly. It pierced me to the heart to hear that, Mr. Carter. That you were in need of care at all was wholly my doing, and you might have paid an even dearer price, had not Dr. Harrison's surgery proved a success." She sat silently, her lovely face now haggard and streaked with tears.

After some time she spoke again, so softly he had to struggle to hear her words.

"No, Mr. Carter, I have daily proof of my folly, and what it cost you. There is no possible way I could discharge the obligation I owe to you, now and for the rest of my life."

"You owe me nothing, nothing, my lady," he insisted gently.

She spoke again, as if he had not uttered a word. "I was weak and foolish with Septimus, and it was you who suffered for it. I alone bear the responsibility."

"It is not yours alone, my lady." He fairly whispered the words, and feared to speak further, lest he weep. For a long moment they remained in silence together, merely watching the firelight, listening to the crackle of the flames.

It felt remarkable for her to at last acknowledge to herself that this stern, stubborn man was a good deal less of a stranger, and more of a son, than was her own child Septimus, whom she had borne and nurtured and watched depart from her, evidently never to return. But Edward Carter had remained by her side, despite all, and if she relied upon him so wholly, she would also endeavor to understand him as well.

At last she spoke. "You will dine with me this evening, of course." She added, very quietly, "That was not an order, Mr. Carter. It was merely an invitation."

In the flickering light she could just read the compassion in those pale eyes. "Of course, my lady. As you wish."

"There is much I still must say to you."

* * *

After they had concluded their meal, Lady Ludlow again led him to the parlor, where they took up their places by the fire once more. She seemed restored by the hour they had had spent at supper, but was no less reflective than before.

"Mr. Carter, for now, at least, let us speak no more of this business with Harry Gregson, and for that matter, with Anthony Beckett. I will only acknowledge that I must admit defeat, Mr. Carter. The world is changing, and I am powerless to stop it."

"We are all of us powerless to stop it."

"There are, however, some things which do remain within my ability to influence, and that is what I wish to discuss with you."

"Yes, my lady."

"The first is a most delicate matter," she said, averting her gaze.

"Mr. Carter, I am concerned that what Laurentia has done may leave her reputation tainted – unfairly, fairly, it matters not; people will talk, as you know. I feel I have failed her, for all that my intent was to offer her protection. She is very much alone, you see, and must feel the loss of her family excessively at this time. I knew her mother and father, of course, quite intimately, and feel an obligation to them as well as to her."

"What sort of man was Miss Galindo's father?"

"Sir Peter? A bit odd, but very kind. I rarely heard a cross word from him. His notions concerning education were rather daring, or used to be considered so – though perhaps you, Mr. Carter, might not find them so very strange, not in these times -- and he lavished attention on his sons and daughters equally. In fact it is not an exaggeration to say he adored his children. Laurentia alone survives, of course. Her brothers and sister predeceased even their parents."

"And what became of Sir Peter?"

"When Laurentia was perhaps 19 or 20, he fell ill, and great expense was taken to determine what was wrong and to effect a cure. Dr. Morgan believed there was a tumor, and that surgery, even if Sir Peter survived it, would not prolong his life. I sent for a physician of my acquaintance, a very learned man, and he concurred with Dr. Morgan that there was nothing to be done for Sir Peter – nothing, that is, but to assuage the pain." She closed her eyes. "In the end, even that could not be accomplished. I wish I could forget what he suffered. I know Laurentia cannot."

A shudder went through him.

After a pause, Lady Ludlow continued, softly, "The only mercy was that his suffering did not continue over many months."

"And when Sir Peter died –"

"The estate was entailed to Laurentia's cousin – a male cousin, Mr. Carter, as you of course understand. Moreover, there had been a rift within the family, and that relative, the current baronet, came to his title and lands, and had nothing further to do with Laurentia and her mother.

"Sir Peter had of course made provision for them, but what investments he'd made had not prospered, and he had as well incurred great expense during his illness. There was, as a consequence, but little money left for Lady Galindo and her daughter to live on.

"Laurentia was clever – _is_ clever, rather – and spirited, and had been educated beyond what was usual for girls, and that may have been her ruin. Wit and talent often serve a woman ill when it comes time to marry, especially when little money has been settled upon her."

Mr. Carter could make no reply to that.

"She was therefore insistent on making her own way, but wholly unprepared for what confronted her. She might have been a governess, but that would have meant parting company with her mother. So she chose to remain instead here in Cranford, looking after Lady Galindo and making what living she could."

"So Miss Galindo took up millinery, and remained by her mother's side."

Lady Ludlow met his gaze. "And what other course would you have had her pursue, Mr. Carter? A study of the law, or perhaps of medicine?"

"No, my lady. I understand she had obligations, as well as constraints."

"Indeed." She smiled sadly. "I do not wish to be indelicate, but there was a time when I thought to persuade her to marry. I shall not speak of the circumstances but only say that Laurentia was never particularly docile, and would not have agreed to a union merely to please her mother or myself, let alone to secure wealth and rank.

"It is not, of course, that Lady Galindo was consumed with such thoughts. Maria was broken following Peter's illness. She was never the same, though she lived another decade.

"I have, perhaps, told you more than I ought, Mr. Carter. But you will better understand her nature, and how best to entreat her to return – that is, if you wish her to return."

"My lady?" His eyes were wide with astonishment.

"Before she left, Laurentia said an odd thing to me. 'Perhaps it is best to let Mr. Carter have his way.' I believe those were her words. She said that now you might have a clerk of your own choosing." He thought he detected a smile, albeit a sad one, on Lady Ludlow's lips as she added, "I had not thought it in her nature to surrender so easily."

She continued, "You do, of course, have my leave to make decisions concerning your staff. As much as I desire to help Laurentia, I will not insist that you take her back into the office. I know you were displeased when I installed her there in the first place, and so I leave it up to you to determine whether she shall return or someone else shall succeed her. Rest assured that I will always welcome her back to Hanbury, whether in my employ or no, but I will not force your hand concerning any decisions you take regarding Laurentia."

He sat there in shock. "My lady, it was never my intention to –"

He could not finish the sentence.

"I only ask, Mr. Carter," she continued, as though he had said nothing, "that regardless of what you decide, you speak gently to her. Be kind. She has been faithfulness itself these past months."

"My lady, you have my promise that I will forget neither what you have related nor your charge to me, and I will give both proper consideration."

"Thank you, Mr. Carter. I am most grateful for that."

* * *

After he returned home that night, he thought much about the past, reviewing the events of his life like chapters in a book. He had long held the belief that all he had achieved had come through ambition and hard work, perhaps prudence, and yet as he examined each action, each decision he had taken, he found that assistance had always come to him, that he had never once been wholly alone in anything he'd undertaken. He'd been educated as a clerk in Birmingham, and then as a manager at Hanbury, through the assistance of good men, kind men.

And Katherine brought with her a dowry when they had married. He'd have sought her hand even if she had not a penny, of course, but there it was. Indeed, between the two of them, she and her father had secured his future. After Katherine's death he had taken the money she'd left and invested it in the mill, and had become wealthy not through his own labor or even particular shrewdness, but again through the efforts of others.

He'd believed fate or ambition – perhaps both – had brought him to where he was, and yet he had never been completely alone through any of it, not even in these past months, perhaps especially not in these past months. There had always been someone at his side. It was strange that he had never fully understood that before.

Still, he had keenly felt the injustices of the world and saw what consequences they had for people like Harry Gregson. Yet it had been Miss Galindo who had reminded him that even Lady Ludlow, for all her privilege, was as much a prisoner of those injustices as any of them.

As for Miss Galindo herself –

Dear God, what had he said to her?

* * *

_To be continued..._


	13. Private Interviews

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks. The whole project has fairly reduced me to tears, as I meant to spend this time revising and posting new material, rather than redoing most of my previous chapters, or explaining to readers what happened.  
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The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, which was based on Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**. My story, however, has no connection whatsoever to the BBC's 2009 sequel.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Private Interviews**

The voices were audible even before Mr. Carter entered the shop.

"I fear I do not understand, Mrs. Jamieson. This commission was made some time ago, and the work has been completed. The expenses have been incurred, and –"

"Oh, my dear Miss Galindo, surely that is of no consequence. You have a good deal of custom and certainly cannot be concerned that my needs have changed, and I no longer require the items in question."

As he unobtrusively pushed open the door, Mr. Carter saw the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, dog in her arms, standing before Miss Galindo. Miss Galindo, her face a study in hurt, confusion, and barely concealed anger, was attempting to remain composed while Mrs. Jamieson, for her part, kept to an impassive, fixed, and chilly smile.

As luck would have it, that ill-tempered dog began bark and squirm at the presence of a stranger. Miss Galindo glanced towards the door, saw who it was, and a deep flush spread over her face.

"Now stop that – oh, Mr. Carter!" Mrs. Jamieson had at last registered Mr. Carter's appearance, and bowed as graciously as she could while holding an armful of agitated dog. "Dear Mr. Carter! How do you do?"

His hat. He had forgotten to remove his hat. That done, he bowed and smiled awkwardly at the two ladies. "Very well, Mrs. Jamieson. Good afternoon to you, Miss Galindo," he added with a nod and a smile to that lady.

It was Mrs. Jamieson who returned the smile, though warmly this time. "Mr. Carter, this is perhaps the last place on Earth I would have expected your presence, but I imagine you have some commission from Lady Ludlow."

"Lady Ludlow? Yes, yes, of course."

"I expected as much," replied Mrs. Jamieson, again smiling back at him. _Still a very fine-looking man, for all that he has endured. Heavens, he must stand full six feet tall._ It was unpardonably rude, but her gaze wandered to Mr. Carter's legs. _Now which one was it Dr. Harrison took off?_

"Well, then, Mr. Carter, my business is concluded here, and so I must not keep you from your errand." Turning to Miss Galindo, she said, "Do not worry, my dear. I am certain one of my neighbors will express an interest and relieve you of the burden of these things. Good day to you." Turning back to Mr. Carter, she added, "Good day, Mr. Carter."

He drew open the shop door and let her pass, then shut it behind her. For a moment he hated Mrs. Jamieson, hated all she represented. He even hated the dog. That she could come in here and subject Miss Galindo to such humiliation --

"Well, Mr. Carter," said a soft voice behind him.

He turned about, a little awkwardly. "Well, Miss Galindo," he said, with what he hoped was a gentle smile. There was no friendly response from her, however, not so much as the faintest effort, and indeed the expression in her eyes seemed to have hardened at his presence.

"Miss Galindo, surely you can guess why I am here today. I had rather hoped to conduct this interview at Hanbury, but your reply to my letter left me no choice."

"Indeed, Mr. Carter, you had the choice to allow the written word to suffice," she said with a meaningful look and a lift of the eyebrows.

Was she all at once slightly more receptive, or was that just his wish? Regardless of which it was, he must see this through.

"Well, then, Miss Galindo, might we sit down and confer in private? I have much to discuss with you, particularly concerning her ladyship's –"

"Oh, Mr. Carter, there is no business we have before us that cannot be conducted right here in this room."

"But we might be interrupted." He did not care to have this discussion while the ladies of Cranford looked on, registering every minute detail.

"Very well." She went to the door and locked it. "Now, what might I do for you, Mr. Carter?"

It was painful to hear such a cold, businesslike question, and from Miss Galindo of all people. She had such a warm, lovely voice, he had noticed during their hours together that spring, and now she --

"Mr. Carter?"

"Well, then, Miss Galindo. Yes. We shall do this as you wish. Firstly, I must discuss with you what took place with Beckett --"

"Mr. Carter, I think that is no longer any concern of yours." Her tone had softened slightly. "Anthony is now employed by Mr. Goddard, and I no longer need instruct him."

"But it was very wrong of Beckett to approach you, to chance subjecting you to the scrutiny of the entire community by arranging meetings with you that were private but could not possibly remain secret. Why did he not come to me? He had to have known I would have helped him somehow, that I would have – "

"But Anthony made his appeal to me, as curious as that seems," said Miss Galindo. "Indeed, I asked him whether he might not instead wish to be trained up as your clerk. Do you know what he said? That he wanted to be his own master and to choose his own teacher as well. Whatever respect he has for you – and he does esteem you, Mr. Carter; you need not worry on that account -- he came to me first."

A new, thoroughly unsettling thought entered his mind. "Miss Galindo, I sincerely hope that Beckett did not – well, that he was not overly familiar--"

"Oh, Mr. Carter, do not make us all ridiculous! Of course there was nothing improper in Anthony's behavior." Gone was the soft tone, and a passionate anger informed her every word. "And I do not know by what right you ask such questions. My reputation is of no concern to you." An uncomfortable blush had spread across Mr. Carter's face, but whether she noticed or not, she continued, "One would think you spent your time in Johnson's Universal Stores studying the local gossip, though I know you do not have the leisure to do so."

"Please, Miss Galindo. I am very sorry I posed such an indelicate question."

"Your opinion of me must be very low indeed if you felt the need to ask it."

"It was not a judgment of yourself, but rather an acknowledgment of the nature of males."

"Indeed. I did not understand you admitted to fallibility in the male."

"I do admit it, Miss Galindo. And there is something more."

"And what is that, Mr. Carter?"

"Fairly or unfairly, the association with Beckett subjects you, as I said before, to gossip and speculation from one end of the village to the other. Surely you cannot have forgotten that."

Calmly and evenly, she replied, "Oh, no, I warned him of that possibility. You will understand, therefore, why we met at the shop and only during daylight hours."

"And what does that avail you if people begin to make unkind comments about you anyway, and shun you?"

"I had not thought, Mr. Carter, that you were concerned with how kindly or unkindly I am treated." She began clearing away the goods she had placed before Mrs. Jamieson.

She was refusing to so much as look at him, and it was beginning to seem that nothing he said could soften her anger.

He tried again. "Miss Galindo, pause a minute. Let us sit down together and discuss this."

"I think, Mr. Carter, that you do not have the right to demand I do so. And you must excuse me; I have a good deal of work this afternoon."

That put an end to his patience. Whether she was wronged or no, he would have it out with her.

"Miss Galindo, I applaud your industry, but I must also note that you have quite turned your back on your work at Hanbury Court, and that without informing me."

As if explaining for the hundredth time, she said wearily, "Mr. Carter, Lady Ludlow has received my notice. I had thought that she would explain what had transpired."

"Oh, her ladyship was most careful, most thorough, most detailed in her explanation." A tremendous understatement, that. "And yet I do not understand why you did not approach me with your concerns. Surely we could have reached an amicable solution."

Miss Galindo, who had again turned away from him and was tidying up, paused once more. "'Amicable,' Mr. Carter, is not an expression I would have applied to our arrangement," she said softly, again without looking back at him.

She continued, more briskly, "But I misspoke just then, Mr. Carter; it was never 'our' arrangement by any means. It was Lady Ludlow's resolve to thwart your plans for Harry that installed me in your office, and I am sorry for that – sorry for what it meant for Harry, sorry for the unhappiness it caused you, and sorry most of all that I permitted myself to be made a pawn in this particular gambit."

Now he saw the angle he must pursue. "Miss Galindo, I know the regard you have for my lady, and I understand that you acted out of a desire to please her. And as for Harry, please set your mind at rest. Indeed you've never shown the boy anything other than kindness."

"I am fond of Harry," she said softly.

"And he of you," said Mr. Carter, with an unaffected smile.

"But then, Mr. Carter," she continued, "we must agree that if I was able to secure Harry's good opinion, I did not and could not secure yours, and that indeed was where the arrangement ran aground." And she turned away and again began tidying the work table.

"I agree to no such thing, Miss Galindo! What is this?" He took a step towards her and she turned around, at last looking directly into his eyes.

"You needed no help, and so you told me. You did not seek to have me installed in your office, and so you told me."

"Miss Galindo, that was before –"

"And now, when everything is changing all about us, with Lady Ludlow's fortunes so altered and poor Harry treated as a pawn – though to a greater degree than I was, certainly – I see where it is you place your trust and confidence."

"And where is that, Miss Galindo?"

She again turned her eyes to his. "Chiefly in yourself, Mr. Carter. But do not be troubled; if I should _stumble_ upon any one of your secrets, I will keep it safe, as surely as you have demanded scrutiny of my own and indeed pursued them right to my doorstep. I confess I know not by what strange sense of duty you compound my humiliation by appearing here to reproach me for –"

"I am not here to reproach you for anything, Miss Galindo! I am here to make it right, to bid you to come back, to resume your place at Hanbury.

"And as for my supposed lack of trust in you, how can you possibly believe in that? Must I remind you again what you did for me in what I thought were my last moments?" And he thought of how she had stood there beside him in Dr. Harrison's office, how she had taken his hand when he was struggling so, how she had gently stroked that hand. He had been convinced he was about to die, and surely she had felt that as well, that those were the last moments they'd ever share on this Earth –

She had turned her back on him, and he realized with shock that she was weeping, helplessly and wholly weeping. He had said too much. God knew what was in her mind, and he had said too much –

"Miss Galindo –"

He broke off helplessly, then tried again. "Miss Galindo, if there was not trust between us in those moments, then I do not know how trust is defined. And there is no one –"

He could not speak himself now; his voice was breaking. And still she stood there, her head bent, her head turned from him, and her shoulders trembling, and there was nothing he could do.

But if she had faced him, turned her eyes upon him, it might have been more than he could bear. In their former relationship, when she had been teasing or arguing, she had always met his gaze boldly, frankly. But her tears – he was unprepared for her tears, which seemed to summon up some vague memory. Had she wept before him once before? Surely not, surely not — not given her boldness, her pertness. Surely he knew her well enough to –

She was now dabbing at her eyes, endeavoring to compose herself. "I am sorry, Mr. Carter," she said, apropos of nothing.

"Miss Galindo, it is I who should beg pardon. I am grieved that you should suffer so, and I would note that my lady is equally grieved."

"Thank you, Mr. Carter." After a little pause, she added, "Though I will of course write to my lady, I would be obliged if you would convey to her my regret for abandoning you all so peremptorily."

"Then you will come back, Miss Galindo?"

"If my lady wishes."

"I – Miss Galindo, it is not my lady who is making the request. She was most insistent that I must take the decision myself –"

To his dismay this seemed to renew her tears, at least momentarily, and he struggled with what course to take next. Quietly he said, "Will you come back, then?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"I do." As gently as he could manage, he added, "I think this means that we have at last come to agreement. And if so, will you at least shake my hand?" He let her come to him; he did not want to impose himself on her, as she was still struggling with her tears and evidently too embarrassed to look up into his eyes. She said not a word but stepped nearer and reached out her hand, and he took it with both of his hands, enclosing it with both of his hands, hoping she'd draw at least some comfort from that, from the warmth of his touch.

* * *

"Mr. Carter! Mr. Carter!"

Mrs. Forrester had spotted him and was proceeding across the street, fairly dragging a reluctant Miss Pole by the arm.

"Dear Mr. Carter! How do you do?" Mrs. Forrester cried. _Such a brave man!_ The two ladies, like frilled corks, bobbed up and down with curtsying to him.

"Good afternoon, ladies." He was too distracted to smile at them, plagued as he was by the thought that he ought to turn around and walk back into Miss Galindo's shop and persuade her to close it for the afternoon. Now he had been intercepted, and moreover several ladies were already opening her door and going inside. Good God, Miss Galindo was going to receive clients, and in such a state!

"We have not seen you of late, Mr. Carter! I suppose you have come to town on some commission from Lady Ludlow, and had reason to confer with Miss Galindo," continued Mrs. Forrester, with a knowing glance towards the milliner's door.

"I did have the _pleasure_ of speaking to Miss Galindo just now," said he, mentally reproaching himself for that automatic if polite fib. Still, he must see this through, and immediately. "You are aware, of course, that she is the daughter of intimate friends of Lady Ludlow, and of course my lady has always remained concerned for her welfare."

"Oh, indeed, Mr. Carter, I think we all know the regard Lady Ludlow has for Miss Galindo, and indeed share in it," said Miss Pole, avoiding his eye.

"I am not convinced of that, Miss Pole," he said, with a grave look. "Kindness does not always hold sway when ladies converse among themselves – not that I claim moral superiority for my own sex, mind you, but I think you know what I say is true."

Mrs. Forrester blushed at this and gave an embarrassed titter. "Oh, I am sure you are correct, Mr. Carter. People can be terribly wicked!"

"And when we are, why, we must then repent and make amends, Mrs. Forrester! I am sure you understand my meaning. Good day to you, ladies."

* * *

It was strange, Mrs. Morgan thought, that she had managed to bid so decided a farewell to austerity in the last few months. She had come to Cranford alone and in widow's weeds, and within a twelvemonth her fortunes had turned so decidedly as to leave her almost giddy. Oh, there had been that embarrassing business with young Dr. Harrison, but all had ended well, for that dear boy and for herself. He had wed Miss Hutton and she – she had accepted the proposal of Dr. Morgan.

It all had left her quite breathless, this quick succession of courtship and marriage. She had loved Andrew Rose with all her heart, but his had been a reserved affection, rooted more in their friendship and many years of work side by side. But with Dr. Morgan she very nearly felt like a girl again. It was refreshing to find a man who was so unaffected, so artless in his attentions.

And to tell truth, she even felt rather spoiled to the bargain. He always said there was money enough in the household budget to allow his bride to put off her sober garb once and for all, and so she had taken him at his word.

Today, for instance, she was keen to see Miss Galindo about acquiring another bonnet before winter arrived. With a head full of ideas she turned up on the milliner's doorstep, feeling such optimism that it felt as though it were springtime and not late autumn.

She found Miss Galindo alone in her shop. "Good afternoon, Miss Galindo!" said Mrs. Morgan gaily. "I do hope you have gathered all your artistic inspiration this day, for I shall need it –"

She fell silent when she saw Miss Galindo's eyes. For all that the lady was trying to produce a smile for her client, it was clear she'd been weeping, recently and at length.

"Miss Galindo, are you ill?" said Mrs. Morgan tenderly. And at that kind inquiry Miss Galindo could not speak but put a hand up to her mouth as the tears commenced again.

"Oh, my dear," murmured Mrs. Morgan. She led Miss Galindo to a chair, then turned and locked the door of the shop.

Through her tears, Miss Galindo implored, "Please don't, Mrs. Morgan. I have much to do this afternoon. I expect –"

"All of that may wait, my dear. Now tell me what I can get you, how I can help."

In that instant there came a persistent tapping at the door. Miss Galindo made an effort to compose herself and said briskly, "I shall have to get that, Mrs. Morgan. Thank you for your kindness, but –"

This would not do. Miss Galindo could not simultaneously fight off her tears and the onslaught of clients. At once, Mrs. Morgan formed a plan.

"My dear, you are in no state to receive anyone." She opened the door and said to the startled ladies without, "Good afternoon, ladies. I am sorry to report Miss Galindo is unwell, but I will be taking her to Dr. Morgan for a tonic directly. She will be pleased to assist you once she has recovered." She shut the door, decisively and firmly, and said, "Get your coat and bonnet, my dear. I am taking you home with me."

When they arrived at the Morgan household, Mrs. Morgan turned to her maid of all work. "Agnes, make us a pot of tea, and set out some of that cake. And after that Miss Galindo and I are to be left to confer in private. We are not to be interrupted."

"But what if Dr. Morgan comes home?"

"Even Dr. Morgan must wait. Don't worry, Agnes. He'll understand. Now go and put the kettle on."

* * *

Before Mr. Carter had arrived at Miss Galindo's shop, he had been so confident of his approach. He would confront her about her absence, she would shamefacedly agree that she ought not to have left Hanbury without speaking to him, and then he would persuade her to return, and peace would be restored.

Things had unfolded so differently from there. Her vulnerability had fairly broken his heart – and_ he_ had been the one who deserved reproach, for having implicitly stripped away her defenses while remaining so guarded himself. Well, there would be an end to that. If the gossips of Cranford needed to make amends, and Anthony Beckett too, why, then so did he. And if Miss Galindo required protection, or an advocate, Lady Ludlow would no longer be her only ally. Of that he was resolved.

There was something else, too – this business of detecting or suspecting interest in Miss Galindo from unexpected sources – Captain Brown, for one, and Anthony Beckett, for another. If he was honest with himself, he had no incontrovertible proof that either man was pursuing her, not that he would have blamed them for doing so. Both of them were good fellows, sound and whole and healthy, though not perhaps ready to provide for a wife.

No, if he was frank with himself, he'd have had to say it was his own imagination that was being drawn once again in directions he'd thought it had abandoned. While in the shop he had stood there as Miss Galindo wept, and then he'd had a sudden image of what it would be like to draw her to his breast, to have her head nestled up against his throat, as though she had been formed to stand there, to lean against him. He'd thought of her face resting against his waistcoat while he put protective arms about her shoulders and stroked that smooth hair with his hands and let her release those pent-up tears while he murmured words of comfort to her – but what could he have said, what could he possibly have said to her --

And of course he had not yielded to any one of those impulses. Her pride and, it must be confessed, her anger would not have allowed it, and of course if someone had peeked into the window or even entered the shop as they stood thus, well, yet another story about Miss Galindo would be abroad in the streets of Cranford before teatime. Damn him, he was a good deal worse than Beckett, who had at least come to her seeking only counsel and instruction. But still, Beckett must surely have noticed her eyes, her bewitching smile, how she --

Fallibility in the male. Oh, Miss Galindo had no idea, no idea at all how close she had come to proving its existence.

* * *

"Good afternoon to you, Mr. Goddard."

"Why, Mr. Carter, what a pleasure to see you! You are doing well?"

"Oh, tolerably, Mr. Goddard. And I trust your business prospers, and all is well with you and your household?"

"Oh, right as rain, Mr. Carter, right as rain. Now what might I do for you?"

"I would beg leave, Mr. Goddard, to have a word with your assistant, Mr. Beckett, as I have a message to convey to him."

"Oh, indeed, Mr. Carter. I'll have him here directly."

Nothing in their former association had prepared Anthony Beckett for the cold fear he felt upon seeing the expression on Mr. Carter's face. He'd always imagined the man would make a formidable enemy but never believed he would ever have to consider such a prospect himself. Now, seeing the look in Carter's eyes, and guessing the reason he'd come, Anthony fully expected to be the object of profanity such as had not been heard in England since his brother Joe had left on the boat for New York.

* * *

_My dear Miss_

_I trust this finds you in good health and that you have had no trouble since last we met. _

_Mr. Carter has taught me my duty and says I imposed on the kindness of a lady and I must beg your pardon. Miss I am sorry. I never meant any harm and I think you as good a lady as ever I met. I know Mr. Carter thinks so too. He was very angry with me and he told me as much but still spoke like a gentleman for that is what he is._

_Mr. Goddard is very kind and thinks well of me not that I deserve it with all I did to bring sorrow on you. I am for making something of myself and want you to be proud of all you did to help me. Someday I will make it right for you. I know I will._

_I remain your servant Miss_

_A. Beckett_

_

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_

_To be continued..._


	14. Misbehavior Encouraged

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories have simply not been showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks. The whole project has fairly reduced me to tears, as I meant to spend this time revising and posting new material, rather than redoing most of my previous chapters, or explaining to readers what happened.**

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Something for Twelfth Night, and just at the last minute too. To enjoy this chapter, you don't have to know about the custom of hanging mistletoe and/or about Scottish or English country dancing, but it wouldn't hurt.

Dickens did indeed publish **A Christmas Carol** towards the end of 1843, though I cannot say whether it was available in Cheshire or even in Manchester, where Captain Brown was known to travel.

Any song lyrics quoted are long since in the public domain.

* * *

**Chapter 14**:** Misbehavior Encouraged**

The arrival of the little parcel on Christmas Eve had been most unexpected. It was a simple thing, all brown paper and string, but when she opened it she found the most exquisite book of sonnets, a little treasure she could hold in her hand. As she gently turned the leaves she saw glimpses of what she had known long ago, the Italian countryside and all its attendant memories.

There was something else as well. Mr. Carter had included a brief note, and that too was a simple thing, really -- just his compliments, the compliments of the season, and a wish that she find pleasure in the book. It would have touched Miss Galindo to know what trouble he'd gone to just to produce that note – the shocking amount of ink and paper he had expended in abortive attempts at expressing himself. But it mattered not; she held in her hand one of the loveliest gifts she'd ever been given, and the letter she wrote in reply satisfied him that his present had been well received.

In fact that letter remained still in his breast pocket on Twelfth Night.

* * *

"I want the new year at Hanbury to begin with joy, Mr. Carter," Lady Ludlow had told him that autumn, when it became clear that some of the troubles of the old year were subsiding and she might look to the future. And so she had become very taken with the notion of a Twelfth Night celebration – though a simple one, with an eye towards a more modest style at Hanbury.

To Lady Ludlow's astonishment, Mr. Carter had embraced the plan, assured her that it would be possible, as long as they practiced some economies.

"Just a simple, pleasant, merry celebration, Mr. Carter – games for the children, games for everyone else, perhaps. And light refreshments such as little cakes, hothouse grapes, other Hanbury fruits."

"And might I suggest country dances, too, my lady – jigs, reels, and so forth. We can engage some local musicians at modest expense, I am sure."

"If you like, Mr. Carter." She was quite astonished to hear him suggest dancing at all but was not about to discourage it.

* * *

In the end, the arrangements bore very little resemblance to those for the summertime fetes for which Lady Ludlow was well-known. In fact, by the night of the event itself, Mr. Carter had gotten himself into something of a fever of worry that propriety might be thrown away this time due to the more informal nature of the entertainment.

Miss Galindo, who had unobtrusively assisted Mr. Carter and her ladyship in this plan, resolutely refused to indulge his little anxieties. "Mr. Carter, surely you are not going to go about looking for concealed bottles of strong drink, or the odd housemaid lingering beneath the mistletoe with her follower. I am sure it will be a pleasant, merry evening, and pass without troubling incidents. Besides, this is Twelfth Night, after all, not Ash Wednesday, and there is no harm in high spirits."

* * *

Miss Galindo had done some fretting of her own that evening, however. On greeting Lady Ludlow before the arrival of guests, she had asked her ladyship's opinion on the gown she had selected.

Lady Ludlow had smiled to herself, a little sadly. It was not like Laurentia to display self-doubt, but perhaps the recent gossip had done its work. Still, it was best to make a brisk response, and not indulge her worries.

"Laurentia, I am sure you are aware that in your mother's day and mine, such attire would not have attracted the slightest controversy."

As for Mr. Carter, who was privy to none of this, even he could see that Miss Galindo had made a special effort this evening. _His_ Miss Galindo always wore high collars and gowns of sober grey, brown, or purple, and dressed her hair in the simplest manner. This evening, though, she was clad in a blue-green gown that discreetly revealed her throat and even some of her shoulders. She wore no jewelry to speak of but for her earrings, and had arranged decorative combs in her smooth brown hair.

When Lady Ludlow sent the both of them out to greet the guests, Mr. Carter took the opportunity to murmur to Miss Galindo, "Is that the fashion now? I mean it's very becoming."

Miss Galindo might well have indulged a wicked impulse to ask what he meant by "that," or to reveal that her dress wasn't the fashion, in this or any recent year, and was merely a gown she and Jessie Gordon had spent a few afternoons remaking. Instead she simply smiled up at him and replied, "It is very kind of you to say so, Mr. Carter."

"I am not being kind, Miss Galindo. You look very well." And he was rewarded when she blushed a little bit in response to his smile, and the way his gaze wandered up and down her form.

Peter Jenkyns came in, leading his sister Matilda and her companion, Mary Smith. Accompanying them was Jack Marshland, who had come from Manchester for the great occasion. "Ladies, there's mistletoe about, so mind where you stand. I'll not take responsibility for your fate if you fail to heed my advice," he announced, to the squeals of several of the women.

Miss Smith turned to Mr. Carter. "I understand we shall have music tonight."

"Yes, most assuredly, Miss Smith, and we shall have dancing as well," he said in reply.

"Will you now?" said Dr. Marshland. "Last Christmas it was songs and games in Cranford, and tonight at Hanbury it's music and games and dancing as well."

"I know you sing, Dr. Marshland, but do you dance?" asked Miss Matty.

"I know a jig from a reel."

"Well, I shall leave the reels and jigs to Mary this evening, and supervise the children in their games, much as I did at the garden party," said Miss Matty. "No dancing for me, I fear."

"Nor for me, Miss Matty," said Miss Galindo, with a kind smile.

"Now, now, what's this, ladies? To announce you will not dance on Twelfth Night?" said Peter Jenkyns.

"I believe they mean to shun us, every last one," said Dr. Marshland. "But we are not so easily discouraged, are we, Mr. Jenkyns?"

"By no means."

As Mr. Jenkyns and his party proceeded on to the salon, Mr. Carter turned to Miss Galindo and said, "I believe Mr. Jenkyns is right. You ought to dance. I should like to see you dancing."

She looked at him in astonishment. "Should you, Mr. Carter?"

"Oh, yes."

She smiled, a bit sadly. "Perhaps that is a wish that must go unfulfilled, Mr. Carter. My dancing days are past, or very likely so."

* * *

Guests from Cranford continued to appear in the main hallway. The Honorable Mrs. Jamieson was nowhere to be seen, at least not thus far, but Miss Pole arrived in the company of her friend Mrs. Forrester, and then Jessie Gordon walked in with the captain and greeted both Miss Galindo and Mr. Carter very warmly.

Her father proved even more effusive. "Miss Galindo! Don't you look delightful tonight!" cried Captain Brown, taking in her appearance and once more drawing a blush from the lady.

Turning to Mr. Carter, he shook his hand heartily. "It's good to see you, Carter."

"And you, Captain Brown. The major is not accompanying you this evening?"

"Business concerning his property in Scotland forced him to travel north after New Year's Day." The captain lowered his voice and added, "And being such a very new husband, he was rather anxious about the prospect of Jessie making a wintertime journey in her condition, for all that she is feeling uncommonly well now that she is past – oh, but I must not say any more." He chuckled. "Carter, it is good that I was never a spy, for I do not know when to stop talking."

Mr. Carter was unable to suppress a smile. "Do not worry, Captain. I shall keep your counsel."

Captain Brown continued, "In any event, Jessie and I did not wish to remain at home this fine evening. And I must say it does look very well here, Carter. Most festive. Speaking of which, what do you suppose I have just purchased? Why,** A Christmas Carol**, by Mr. Dickens. It's his new work, you see – quite a short one, but very good, a ghost story –"

"A ghost story?" Mr. Carter asked. Perhaps he should obtain a copy himself. Harry might find tales of ghosts very interesting, and it would make a change from the history they'd been reading.

"Well, yes, but it's more than that. It's harrowing in parts, but also most amusing, and of course it has a moral. You'd like that, Carter, I know." Turning to Miss Galindo, he added, "And you would enjoy it as well, though I'll wager you'd check the locks on your doors most carefully, Miss Galindo, after reading the scene where – oh, I shall not tell you; you must read it for yourself."

"I will remember that, Captain Brown," said Miss Galindo, adding, with a smile, "Of late I have been reading a good deal of verse, but perhaps I shall eventually find time for prose."

Miss Galindo thought to direct Jessie to the small parlor where a pianoforte stood, that she might play and perhaps rest a little before the evening's dancing began. Meanwhile Mr. Carter and Captain Brown were left to greet Dr. and Mrs. Harrison, who strode in with Reverend Hutton and his younger daughters -- both the men in black, of course, but Helen, Lizzie, and their elder sister in bright dresses, looking very much like winter blooms.

Sophy Harrison curtsied to Mr. Carter. "What a delightful plan, Mr. Carter, to have a Twelfth Night celebration! Everything looks wonderful."

"That's very kind of you to say, Mrs. Harrison. And the musicians will be tuning up shortly, and the dancing will begin. I do hope you and your husband will join in."

"Oh, I shall quite insist upon it," she said, exchanging a look with Frank.

"And I shall stand ready to treat any sprained ankles!" he teased, as his young sisters-in-law giggled. "But I expect no such mishaps to occur, and the evening will pass enjoyably. If you will excuse us, please." And with a nod to Carter and Brown, he led his wife on to the salon.

"Now there's a happy man," rumbled Captain Brown to Mr. Carter as they watched the Harrisons depart with Sophy's father and sisters. "Positively beaming he is, and that wife of his sparkles like a star."

"As you say, they do seem very happy."

Now was the time. "Carter, did you ever think to marry again?"

"Marry again? No – well, not – no," he said finally.

Brown gave him a sidelong look. "Why ever not?"

"Must you really ask that? You can hardly imagine a man in my situation marrying."

"Your situation?" said Captain Brown, "You have standing in the community, and manners and education besides. Very admirable traits, if you ask me."

Carter snorted.

"But of course my opinion does not matter; you have only to concern yourself with the lady in question," said Captain Brown, lowering his voice insinuatingly.

"Captain Brown, there is no 'lady in question,'" said Mr. Carter tersely.

"I confess I am sorry to hear that, sir," said Brown, with a doleful look at his friend.

"And what about you, Brown? Did you not think to marry again?"

There was an edge to Carter's voice the captain did not quite understand, but he gamely replied, "Are you mad? A rough old soldier on half pay, and sixty to the bargain? No, of course not."

"And yet Dr. Morgan is your age, or thereabouts, and has married again, and seems a happier man for it. Do you not think to follow his example?"

"Touché, Mr. Carter, touché! That's the spirit. Take Dr. Morgan for your model."

"I had rather not, Captain. I would not relish torturing people with potions and purges."

Brown chuckled. Carter had a sense of humor after all; perhaps his was not such a hopeless case. "Well, then, perhaps not your model in every sense. But Morgan gets some things right, even if he takes his time about it. Imagine where he'd be if the scales had not fallen from his eyes and he'd not noticed the lady right before him. Why, he'd still be padding about in his old wig and coat, and scolding Frank Harrison at every turn. Not an appealing prospect, that. No, Morgan – and, for that matter, Harrison – made a wise decision. Just think on that, my friend."

* * *

"Do you know this one, Miss Galindo?" Jessie played a few notes of a carol.

"Why, indeed I do, Mrs. Gordon."

"Will you sing as I play?" asked Jessie. "I have not the voice for this tune, you know, and I think you will sound very well."

"Oh, surely not –"

"Nevertheless, I would enjoy it if you would consent to sing."

"Very well." Jessie touched the keys of the pianoforte, and Miss Galindo began her song.

"Tomorrow shall be my dancing day.

I would my true love would so chance

To see the legend of my play

To call my true love to my dance.

Sing oh, my love,

Oh, my love, my love, my love,

This have I done for my true love."

Charles Maulver stepped into the room and, smiling, listened as they continued the carol, and offered his applause when they had done.

"I thought I recognized your voice, Laurentia," he said, taking her hand.

"Good evening, Charles. Mrs. Gordon, I would like to present to you Sir Charles Maulver."

"Why, Laurentia, I have known Mrs. Gordon, and her family, for many a year." Jessie blushed scarlet at that, and was no less embarrassed when Sir Charles continued. "Do you not know what heroic service her good father performed on my behalf when we were both soldiering?"

Miss Galindo blushed in her turn. "Indeed he has never spoken of it."

"That's entirely understandable. The captain is far too modest to make mention of his own courage.

"But let us leave war behind, and speak of gentler subjects. Now why are you ladies hiding away in here? There is to be dancing in the salon, you know."

Jessie blushed again, very deeply, and Miss Galindo observed, "I have had the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Gordon play before, you see, and I thought she would enjoy trying this fine instrument."

"And it sounded very well indeed," he said, with a smile and a nod at Jessie. "Still, this is Twelfth Night, and all sorts of things are bound to occur. Do come out and join the others."

"Oh, we will not remain here the entire evening, I assure you," said Miss Galindo with a smile.

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Gordon. "I believe I will see what has become of my father. It was a pleasure to see you, Sir Charles." And Jessie excused herself and slipped out of the room.

"Well, Laurentia, you were not always so shy and sedate. I remember you played snap-dragon at Christmas when you were but a girl."

"And I got burned for my efforts, as I recall."

"Indeed you did! It was the only time I ever saw your father angry with you."

"I can believe that," she said softly. "But I have done with games now, Charles. Shall we go and join the others?"

"Of course."

* * *

The musicians had tuned up to begin the first of their sets, and the floor was fairly filled with the denizens of Cranford and Hanbury, eager to enjoy the first dance any of them had attended in a great while.

Mr. Carter had been standing sentinel to watch the proceedings but eventually took a seat within view of the dancing, and Miss Galindo quietly joined him there. It grieved her to think that the entire exercise must remind him of any limitations he faced due to his accident, and yet she knew he had planned this evening himself. Perhaps he had made peace with his lot, with whatever altered fate he must confront. At least she hoped that was so.

While the two of them were thus sitting together, Mary Smith appeared, carrying a plate of fruit and cakes, and settled herself on the other side of Mr. Carter. "I'm afraid Dr. Marshland was a little too enthusiastic at the refreshment table," she said, sotto voce. "Will you partake of a few of these, Mr. Carter?"

Jack Marshland had not taken the seat next to Miss Smith but instead turned to Miss Galindo and said, with surprising gallantry, "Would you allow me the pleasure of dancing with you?"

Miss Galindo had foreseen nothing of this but was too startled to refuse, and could only accept his arm as he whisked her away. Mr. Carter saw from her eyes that she was astonished – perhaps pleasantly so, but astonished nonetheless.

The music was especially lively, he thought, and he tried to recall the tune they were playing. It was something he had often heard as a young man, though its name escaped him. "I have not danced to this since I was a bachelor," he said aloud, before he could stop himself.

Miss Smith looked back at him sympathetically. "I am sorry, Mr. Carter. I do not know what reply to make to that."

The young woman's candor was refreshing. "You need make no reply, Miss Smith. I think we both know my dancing days are over, and that it would be wrong to grieve, when I might have spent this Christmas in the churchyard, rather than in present company!" She smiled at him, and he returned the smile and added, "But you, Miss Smith, are not dancing, and you ought to be."

"I could lay the blame on simple mathematics, Mr. Carter. There are more ladies than gentlemen present, and hence fewer partners available! But truth to tell, I need not dance every dance to enjoy a party."

"That, Miss Smith, is a good observation, when we might as well enjoy the pleasures of music, of conversation. Captain Brown, for instance, has been telling me of this new ghost story Mr. Dickens has written."

"A ghost story? That is most intriguing, Mr. Carter. I own I should like very much to read that, though perhaps not aloud to Miss Matty, or even in her presence." With a smile she said, "Such a tale might give rise to too many unsettling images, especially for a lady with a vivid imagination."

Mr. Carter chuckled. "It would, perhaps, be a bit much for a winter evening's entertainment for such a gentle soul as Miss Matty. I dare say she, like Mrs. Gordon and Miss Galindo, prefers the more refined pleasures of verse."

"I believe she does, Mr. Carter. I believe she does."

* * *

Jack looked back to where Mary was sitting with Mr. Carter. That was no polite, perfunctory discussion. The two of them were genuinely engaged in conversation, and Mary was giving him her warm smile. Imagine that.

When he and Mary and decided on their plan, he'd thought he'd had the better part of the bargain – partnering the lovely Miss Galindo through two dances, and leaving Mary to engage Carter, so that he not feel slighted.

But there was Mary, smiling, laughing, conversing animatedly with Carter, as though there were no place else she would rather be. What was this?

By now Jack was too distracted to follow the dance carefully and instead of gliding easily around Mrs. Johnson nearly knocked her down, drawing an especially bitter and decidedly less than festive look from that lady.

* * *

As for Miss Galindo, she moved faultlessly around the floor, promenading with Mr. Johnson at one moment, smiling at Frank Harrison another, casting off and always returning to just the place she ought to be, as though she had done this every evening of her life.

When Dr. Marshland had completed his two dances with Miss Galindo, Charles Maulver unexpectedly approached and engaged her for two more, and of course she could not refuse her old friend. After that Peter Jenkyns graciously asked if she might not partner him -- a most unusual turn of events. By the time she returned to where Mr. Carter was sitting, she was glowing from the exercise and the attention.

It touched him to think she would keep him company during this evening, when she might have circulated throughout the room. Whatever had happened during the autumn, with all the talk in Cranford, she clearly remained more at home in such an assembly than he did. He'd heard her singing with Jessie before, and seen with what ease she had glided about the floor during the dancing.

At the thought of Miss Galindo's dancing, he chuckled with satisfaction. It had to have been an education for Peter Jenkyns, newly returned from India, and even to Jack Marshland, who had seemed positively bewildered by the steps.

And as for any thoughts of what might have been, had he not made that trip to the railway site in May, he very carefully banished them from his mind.

* * *

Afterwards, no one ever could quite remember who started it, or even what the tune had been, but later that evening the fiddler had struck up one last song, even after the dancers had cleared the floor, and the other musicians had joined in one by one – the drummer, the flutist – until all were playing. Then one of the men present had impulsively seized his partner once more by the hand, and then another couple joined hands with them, and then another, until a line of people, hand in hand, was dancing and singing its way through the room and out into the hallway.

As they proceeded, even more people joined in – the Goddards, the Johnsons, even Augusta Tompkinson, even Reverend Hutton and his girls – clasping hands, singing and dancing their way along.

Peter Jenkyns took his sister Matty by one hand and a shrieking Miss Pole by the other, and off they went, along with all the others, through the halls, out the steps of the estate, and onto the grounds.

Miss Galindo was watching these developments when she spied Mr. Carter standing off to one side, looking very much like a schoolboy still at his lessons while his mates are already at play.

She sidled up to him and smiled. "The party has proved quite a success, Mr. Carter. Well done."

"_This_ was not actually my doing," he said, nodding in the direction of the line of dancers.

"Misbehavior is to be expected, indeed encouraged, on Twelfth Night," she whispered, smiling. "And besides, everyone is enjoying the good will and fellow feeling brought on by this evening."

She looked as though she was rather enjoying it all herself – so rosy from the dancing, so festive in her holiday dress. He smiled down at her and said, with a gesture towards the line of people, "Well, shall we see where this leads?" Then he offered her his arm, and after hesitating a moment, she took it, and the two of them walked out of the salon and into the hallway, where the dancers were still snaking their way towards the main entrance.

* * *

Captain Brown had been pleased his daughter had embraced the plan to attend the party, but now Jessie was looking tired, and it wouldn't do to press her to remain out later, not in her delicate state.

From a distance the captain could see Miss Galindo had once again caught up with Mr. Carter, and had actually taken the gentleman's arm as they passed through the hallway.

_That's as it should be, on this night or any other_, thought Brown.

"Well, Jessie, I would say it is time we made our way home. Do you not agree?"

* * *

The dancers had exhausted themselves and begun saying their goodnights, and the musicians were gathering up their instruments and having one last drink. Matty Jenkyns and her brother and Miss Pole were nowhere to be seen, and in searching for them Mary Smith and Jack Marshland took a final stroll through the greenery-trimmed hallways.

"I'm glad you invited Miss Galindo to stand up with you. She seemed to enjoy herself, and certainly danced beautifully," observed Miss Smith.

"Did she? I'm no judge of the lightness of a step. But surely she has the loveliest brown eyes." When Miss Smith made no reply, he continued, "And you there deep in conversation with Mr. Carter. What on Earth do you find to talk about? To me he's always seemed more solemn than the rector, and three times as strict."

"That is most unfair to Mr. Carter, as I've always found him to be pleasant company. He reads avidly, takes an interest in the wider world, and, I would note, listens as much as he speaks. I'd advise you to engage him in conversation him next time you see him, for the two of you would easily find subjects of mutual interest to discuss, I am certain."

"I'll remember that, Miss Smith." Then he smiled and looked directly into her eyes. "However, I see that you have failed to take_ my_ advice."

"And what advice was that, Dr. Marshland?"

"Why, to mind where you stand." He glanced upwards, and she followed his gaze all the way to the mistletoe hanging from the archway above them.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	15. Tender Hopes

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks. The whole project has fairly reduced me to tears, as I meant to spend this time revising and posting new material, rather than redoing most of my previous chapters, or explaining to readers what happened.**

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**Chapter 15: Tender Hopes**

"How very curious this is, reading **A Christmas Carol** when the season is past," said Miss Pole said one winter afternoon to the other ladies assembled in Miss Matty's sitting room.

"The value of the story is not diminished by the date on the calendar, Miss Pole," said Mary Smith, looking up from the book and adjusting her spectacles. "And it is but a short work. When we finish the ground will still be frozen, though one might hope the spirit of good will would remain abroad in the land."

"Indeed, my father was so fond of the tale, he fairly insisted upon sharing it with his friends and neighbors," said Mrs. Gordon, exchanging a smile with Miss Matty.

"And it is delightful to have amusements, too, as winter is so very dull between Twelfth Night and St. Valentine's Day," added Mrs. Forrester.

"St. Valentine's Day? Mrs. Forrester, what can you mean? I am sure there is no one among us who pays the least regard to St. Valentine's Day and any attendant nonsense."

At that three pairs of eyes trained themselves on Miss Pole, as Miss Smith looked up from her book, Mrs. Gordon from her needlework, and Miss Matty from the tea tray.

"Have I said something amiss?" asked Miss Pole with a nonchalant air.

"Oh, Miss Pole, there's not a heart, no matter how solitary, but flutters just a bit on St. Valentine's Day. A lady always retains tender hopes, regardless of her age or station in life," said Mrs. Forrester with a sigh. "Besides, you cannot frown upon the day's innocent pleasures."

Miss Pole snorted. "There was little that was innocent about last St. Valentine's Day, Mrs. Forrester. Such mischief as took place I have not seen in Cranford before now. And it was all that Irishman's doing, I think, if my memory has not failed me –"

"Oh, but that has long since been resolved," Miss Matty interjected, exchanging a look of alarm with Mary. She continued, more brightly, "And moreover Miss Caroline is now wed, and very happily too."

"And Dr. Marshland humbly begged pardon and was forgiven," said Miss Smith mildly, looking down at her book.

"Yes. Well, surely that was more than he deserved. There are some failings one ought not to forgive in a man," sniffed Miss Pole before adding, briskly, "We seem to have forgotten our story. Shall we continue with the tale of Mr. Scrooge? I must confess I don't much care for him, though. He is so hard of heart."

* * *

Miss Galindo had already donned bonnet and coat in preparation for leaving the office when Mr. Carter, his face ruddy from the wind, suddenly walked in the door. For all that it was late in the day, and they were in the very heart of winter, he exhibited a very marked vitality.

"Miss Galindo, I am glad I arrived back before you set off for home. Firstly, it is bitterly cold, and I want to arrange to have you driven back to town. No arguments," he added when she opened her mouth to speak.

"I was only going to thank you, Mr. Carter," she said, with the sort of smile he thought she gave only to Harry Gregson.

He placed a small package on the desk before them, then pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands to warm them. "Well, I would take you myself, but I am expecting my pupil to arrive here shortly."

"So Harry's lessons continue this evening."

"Indeed they do, and that reminds me of the second matter." He reached down and undid the strings on the package, revealing two books. "I have just seen Captain Brown, who has returned from Manchester and has very kindly brought back two copies of Mr. Dickens's new book – one for Harry, one for you." He picked up one of the books and passed it into her hands, his fingers brushing lightly against hers.

"For me?" Miss Galindo blushed with embarrassment and astonishment. "He has brought me –"

"Yes, and he was very insistent that I must deliver it to you promptly." Mr. Carter's eyes were filled with amusement, and all at once he looked remarkably boyish. "I do not think Captain Brown is used to anyone disobeying his orders, Miss Galindo."

"I must confess, Mr. Carter, that I am astonished. I expected no such gift," she said quietly.

"Well, he had promised to lay hands on a copy on my behalf – or Harry's, really – and I think he felt you might enjoy it as well. You know his enthusiasm for Dickens. Why, I believe he means to make all of us – you, Harry, myself -- read it and report back to him."

She smiled. "Perhaps he means to be a teacher as well."

"Perhaps."

"Mr. Carter –"

"Yes?"

"Do you intend to undertake Harry Gregson's entire education yourself? That was not a challenge," she added when she saw his brow furrow. "It was an honest inquiry. I mean surely you have given some thought to what happens as the months pass, as the years pass."

"Indeed I have."

"It is a great burden for you to assume."

"I know." She had no idea how thoroughly he had considered the question even before Lady Ludlow had given up some of her objections to his plans. "And it is not only my burden. The boy's parents, after all, have something to say about it."

"I am sorry, Mr. Carter. I did not mean to imply you had sole authority or responsibility."

"There is no need to apologize, Miss Galindo. And besides --"

He paused, not caring to recount to her the words he'd exchanged with Job Gregson.

"And besides, Miss Galindo, my own education is inadequate, and I can provide Harry only limited instruction."

"Oh, surely not, Mr. Carter –"

"On the contrary, Miss Galindo," he said, "the boy needs more assistance than I am equal to giving him."

"Well, if there is any way I can help you, Mr. Carter, I will do what I can"

"Truly, Miss Galindo?" The expression in his eyes was one she had never seen before – astonishment, curiosity, and some other emotion she could not read.

"Yes, Mr. Carter," she said simply.

He had not expected such an offer, or considered what it might mean to Harry. But he had such hopes for the boy…

"Then we must resume this discussion at a future date – and soon."

"Yes."

* * *

**A Christmas Carol** amused Harry greatly, as Mr. Carter had expected and hoped, but the reading itself had proven something of a challenge. Mr. Carter had forgotten how many classical and other references Dickens inserted into his works, and how frequently the subtleties of a story, or even of the English language itself, could prove a challenge to an 11-year-old boy.

By the time they got to the second stave, Harry was proudly experimenting with words Mr. Carter had taught him ("'Avarice,' Mr. Carter – that's just like in **Aesop's Fables**!") but still besieging him with questions.

"Mr. Carter, why is the girl talking about 'another idol'? Who's standing idle?"

"She doesn't mean 'idle,' I-D-L-E, as in doing no work. An idol, I-D-O-L, is a thing you worship – instead of God, that is –"

"It is a wicked thing, then, Mr. Carter."

"Generally, yes, but here it's not so bad – well, to some extent. The girl is Mr. Scrooge's sweetheart, you see, but she thinks he loves money more than he loves her."

"Oh," said Harry, his eyes wide. Then he added, proudly, "Avarice."

"Exactly. Mr. Scrooge cares too much for money! He still wants to marry her, though, but she –"

"But she _doesn't_ marry him, and he becomes a lonely old man," finished Harry. "Mr. Scrooge is sol- -- he is sol- --"

"'Solitary,' I think you mean to say." Mr. Carter turned to a passage in the first stave. "Yes, here it is – 'solitary as an oyster.'" He chuckled. "What a clever turn of phrase."

"But what does that mean, Mr. Carter?"

"You've never seen an oyster, have you? Well, it lives in its shell – its rough, hard shell. Scrooge is like an oyster shut up in his shell, hard and rough on the outside –"

"Like you, Mr. Carter. I mean –"

Harry stopped, his eyes wide with embarrassment. "I mean I was frightened of you, at first," he finished weakly. He cast his eyes down, and for a moment Carter thought the boy would cry. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carter. I – you aren't – "

"Harry, it is quite all right."

"You've been so kind to me, even when I was --"

"Harry, please. No more." Both of them were embarrassed, and it was impossible to continue with reading. For a moment Harry remained silent with shame, fixing his gaze on the page open before him.

Mr. Carter sought to effect a rescue for them. "Well, now, shall we return to the story tomorrow night?" he said briskly.

"Yes, please, Mr. Carter. I quite like it."

"I'm glad." He stood up. "Well, we'd best be getting you home."

* * *

It was late at night several evenings later, as Miss Galindo was slipping beneath the bedclothes, hoping to warm herself enough to fall asleep, when she remembered **A Christmas Carol**. It was again dreadfully cold that evening, and she wondered if sleep might prove elusive, and reading a welcome distraction.

There was a single candle on her nightstand, and beside it lay two books: the new work from Mr. Dickens, a present from Captain Brown, and the collection of sonnets Mr. Carter had sent her on Christmas Eve.

The captain had been so insistent on obtaining a copy of **A Christmas Carol **for her, and would no doubt ask for her impressions when next they met in the street or after church. He had been so kind about it, and perhaps she had best make a start.

She opened to the first stave, "Marley's Ghost."

_Marley was dead –_

She could not bear to contemplate death and ghosts this night, not even in a work of fiction, not even for her amusement and edification, and not even out of gratitude to Captain Brown.

After carefully placing **A Christmas Carol **a safe distance from the candle, she reached for the volume of sonnets and lifted it from its accustomed place on her table. Nestling more deeply under the covers, she tilted the book towards the light as she gently opened its leaves and began to read.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	16. Guardian Angels

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks. The whole project has fairly reduced me to tears, as I meant to spend this time revising and posting new material, rather than redoing most of my previous chapters, or explaining to readers what happened.**

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Many, many thanks to all who have taken the time to read, review, and send encouragement.

And now for some walking and talking, **Cranford** style.

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**Chapter 16: Guardian Angels**

"Miss Galindo, I do believe you have not recognized me."

Miss Galindo started and froze in her steps. She turned about to face Captain Brown, who was looming over her in the dusk.

"Oh, Captain! I am sorry. I thought –"

"I can well guess what you thought, as you were hurrying down Darkness Lane in an attempt to escape me," Captain Brown said, doffing his hat and smiling down at her. His smile changed to a look of concern as he added, "Though I cannot guess why you would be here at this hour, and quite alone."

"I was delivering some caps, sir. Yes, truly. Not everyone in Cranford gets about so easily as you or I."

"And you are bound for home now, I suppose. Well, I'll see you safely back, if you'll just take my arm, please. There." He adjusted his stride to accommodate her steps as they continued on their way.

"Miss Galindo, it grieves me that you must go about in this manner. Of course I understand there is a considerable burden in keeping a carriage. Like you, I must avoid that expense! But still you ought not to be left wandering the streets of Cranford in solitude."

"Captain, I assure you that is not always the case. Even I am not a stranger to guardian angels." And with that she smiled to herself in a way Captain Brown could read, even in the dimming light. Such a sweet expression she had, he thought. A man would walk clear from Dover to Cranford if he knew he would be the recipient of that smile at the end of his journey.

"I am glad to hear to you speak of guardian angels, Miss Galindo, though I dare say yours are of flesh and blood." _I could even name one of them, _he thought_._

"Quite, but they are of no less assistance." A little embarrassed, she added, "Captain, I am taking you out of your way, and you must be eager to get home to your –"

"Now, now, don't worry about Jessie. The major has returned from Scotland and is at home with her, and I'm glad of it. Jessie and he have been parted quite enough for one lifetime."

Miss Galindo remembered the evening of the party, and Miss Matty's words. In a low voice she said, "And you must be happy to have them here with you in Cranford."

"But they cannot stay forever, Miss Galindo, and that is as it ought to be. Where her husband goes, Jessie must go, as Ruth went with Boaz."

Miss Galindo smiled again. "I think you mean as Ruth went with Naomi."

"Do I? Well, no matter, for Ruth did marry Boaz, after all, and then nothing could part them, either."

At that Miss Galindo could think of no reply. She all too aware that she was walking homewards arm in arm with the captain, and now he was talking of married couples. She hoped it was becoming too dark for him to see the expression on her face.

"I received your letter of thanks regarding **A Christmas Carol**, Miss Galindo," said Captain Brown. "Judging by its date of arrival, Mr. Carter must have gone to you straightaway when I gave him that book."

"Oh, Captain, I think you may rely upon Mr. Carter to fulfill any commission you have for him," she said, smiling again.

"And so may you, Miss Galindo, so may you."

"I do not doubt Mr. Carter's reliability, but would note that it is my duty to assist _him_, not the other way round, for as long as I remain in Lady Ludlow's employ."

"Indeed, Miss Galindo, but perhaps even that may change, given time."

She felt a little unsettled at Captain Brown's words, particularly given their ambiguity, and given the recent economies instituted at Hanbury. What had Mr. Carter been saying to him?

"Do you mean to say I shall lose my position, Captain?" she said, very nearly pausing in mid-stride.

"No, no, quite the contrary. Perhaps you shall accept another!"

"Indeed, I know of no such offer, Captain." They had by now arrived at her doorstep, and she turned to face her tall protector. "Thank you for taking the trouble to escort me home."

"It was no trouble at all, Miss Galindo, and indeed it's very kind of you to endure my company, when there are better guardian angels to be had. And with that, I bid you good night."

"Good night, Captain."

* * *

The following day Miss Galindo was up to Hanbury again, unable to quite banish the conversation with Captain Brown from her thoughts but also puzzled as to what it might mean. As it happened, Mr. Carter was on that day very engaged in meetings with her ladyship and then with estate staff, and there was no opportunity to discuss anything with him – that is, until he came to her, again as she was preparing to return home.

He came in, evidently distracted, his expression inscrutable. "Shall we walk, Miss Galindo? There is something I need to discuss with you."

"Of course, Mr. Carter," she said, feeling a sort of grim relief that Captain Brown had at least dropped a hint of what might happen.

Though they had spent considerable time together, she and Mr. Carter had seldom had reason to go anywhere on foot. Now Miss Galindo noticed that though he moved about easily and quickly, the walking stick remained always in his hand. She decided, therefore, it would be best to follow his pace.

But if she could observe how he conducted himself, she had failed utterly at divining his purpose in inviting her to walk with him.

"Miss Galindo, I want to say again how grateful I am for your willingness to help Harry Gregson with his schooling."

"Oh, Mr. Carter, you know you need only ask me," she said, relieved.

"And I do ask you, and I need not only your assistance but your counsel as well."

"I stand ready to give both." She was astonished at the course their conversation was taking.

They walked on in silence for a few moments before Mr. Carter spoke again.

"You may wonder, Miss Galindo, why Harry is still employed at Hanbury and not safely enrolled in school somewhere. Indeed, I had thought to send him off to Shrewsbury to be educated. I offered to assume the expense myself, but Job Gregson would have none of it, and so much the worse for Harry. The boy would benefit from seeing something of the wider world."

"You might consider, Mr. Carter, that perhaps Harry is not ready yet to go away to school," said Miss Galindo. At that Mr. Carter came to a halt and, brow furrowed, blue eyes coolly stern, turned to look at her. It was a look she'd often drawn from him, and disconcerting now, rather than amusing.

Still, she had to press on. "I think Harry might fare best among people who sincerely care for his welfare. He is so young, after all, and might be lonely and frightened in the midst of so many strangers."

Mr. Carter frowned. "Miss Galindo, you know there must come a time when Harry –"

He checked himself. _Surely there's no need to construct an argument, not when she's here to help you, to advise you, rather than to defeat your purpose,_ he thought.

"I am sorry, Miss Galindo. I spoke just now in haste." She smiled encouragement at him, and he began again, more gently. "We both know that Harry must make his way in the world, but I understand your reluctance to force him into what you see as a premature acquaintance with it. He is indeed very young."

"Yes," she said softly. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Carter. Your nestling will grow stronger and one day fly away, and you will be both proud and a little sad. But he needs your guidance and protection now."

The very thought that she saw him as Harry's guide and protector moved him deeply, and it cost an effort for him to continue, briskly, "Oh, I think Harry immensely capable, Miss Galindo. Why, he could someday go to university -- read law, perhaps, or even take orders. Or he could become a teacher himself –"

"Mr. Carter, I know that you have only the kindest possible intentions, but I would caution you against mistaking your dreams for Harry's. The boy's talents and inclinations will become evident as he grows, as he pursues various courses of study, and cannot be determined as yet." She spoke with a calmness she did not feel, and trembled a bit within as he again looked back at her sternly.

"And what would you have me do, then?" he said, with a trace of his old gruffness.

"Seek a way of providing the most comprehensive education for Harry – a continuation of reading in various areas, of course, and the study of mathematics, science, perhaps the modern languages. And you could, of course, apply to Reverend Hutton to undertake some of the instruction or to recommend someone who could, as you might have done if you had sent Harry to Shrewsbury."

For a long moment he looked at her.

"Mr. Carter, I fear I have offended you –"

"Offended me? No, no, I think your suggestions completely sensible. I had thought at first – I had thought –"

"Perhaps you thought I would echo my lady and suggest that Harry be taught only to serve and to know his prayers?" she finished, with a playful lift of her eyebrows.

"No," he said softly. "I never thought that. But you once thought me cruel for offering Harry lessons, given the position he holds at Hanbury."

"Did I say such a thing to you? Oh, Mr. Carter, I am sorry. I know that everything you've done for Harry has been meant kindly."

He smiled, a bit sadly. "I think, Miss Galindo, that you feared Harry's hopes, and mine, would end in disappointment."

They began to walk again, as if by mutual consent, and spoke not a word for some minutes.

It was again Mr. Carter who broke the silence. "And perhaps you were right to think of disappointments. As it is, there has been so little I have been able to do for Harry. If Lady Ludlow no longer stands in the way of educating the boy, Job Gregson remains very nearly as great an obstacle."

"Is it that Mr. Gregson is opposed to sending Harry away, or to educating him, or perhaps both?"

"Both, I think, and there is something more." Miss Galindo could guess what "something more" meant but waited for Mr. Carter to speak.

"I think he resents my influence on Harry and sees what I do as usurping his role. Harry's gone from assisting his father at poaching to spending his evenings with books."

"And in your company."

"And in my company, though Gregson tolerates what I do for the boy. But I've only gained that tolerance through something close to bribery, as I also provide Harry a meal with his lesson. Harry's is one mouth his father won't have to feed, you see.

"Of course Gregson does not see the value of so much as learning to do sums or sign one's name. But as long as Harry is seen to be in Lady Ludlow's employ, and brings home his wages, that is enough, and he'll not stand my way or his son's – not at the moment."

"And what is Mrs. Gregson's opinion on this, Mr. Carter?"

He seemed astonished at the question, but when he turned to her to make reply, there was none of the accustomed sternness in his expression or his words. "You will understand, Miss Galindo, that I have not conducted a private interview with Mrs. Gregson, about her eldest son or any other matter."

"But surely she must be consulted, and I would hope that her husband has at least done so, and shared her thoughts with you."

At that Mr. Carter's face betrayed astonishment, perhaps a little exasperation. In replying, however, his voice remained as mild as his words were measured. "I think, Miss Galindo, that you'd hope in vain for Job Gregson to seek his wife's opinion.

"I know it is unfair," he added, with a shy smile, "but I cannot envision him discussing this matter with Mrs. Gregson as you and I have done.

"But you have given me much to contemplate, Miss Galindo, and everything you have said leads back to two tasks I have been avoiding."

"And what might those be, Mr. Carter?"

"The first is finding a way to make up for the loss of Harry's wages, should he begin study in earnest. His father won't take charity, but he also won't release his son from his obligations."

"Indeed. And the second?"

He stopped in mid-stride and turned once more to face her.

"I think, Miss Galindo, I shall have to found my own school."

* * *

A few days later Miss Galindo happened to be making her way from her shop to the High Street when she heard yet another familiar voice call out to her.

"Oh, Miss! Miss, it's been ever such a long time." As she turned and shielded her eyes against the winter sun, she could see Anthony Beckett hurrying to catch up with her.

"Why, good afternoon, Anthony -- I mean Mr. Beckett." She noticed that he very nearly winced at the address, but somehow it felt wrong to call him by his Christian name now, when he was no longer Lady Ludlow's servant.

"And where are you bound today, Miss?"

"Johnson's Universal Stores." She was bracing herself for another possible encounter with Mrs. Johnson but secretly hoping she'd only have to deal with Mr. Johnson, who evidently did not share his wife's appetite for village gossip.

"Johnson's? Well, perhaps you'd let me walk part way with you."

The offer of temporary company was not surprising. If Mrs. Johnson cast scornful glances her way, she could well imagine what Mr. Beckett might face.

"It was before Christmas, last time I saw you," said Mr. Beckett, falling into step beside her.

"Indeed it was," said Miss Galindo with a smile.

"And are you well, Miss?"

"I'm very well. And yourself?"

"Never better. And how is your Mr. Carter?"

"Oh, he's quite well. Full of energy, full of purpose, but bearing more than his share of burdens as well, and as usual." She smiled wryly at Mr. Beckett. "I think you understand that Mr. Carter is the sort of man who wants to set the world right -- or at least his little portion of it."

Mr. Beckett grinned back. "Oh, he's a decent man, as few are, Miss. That time he scolded me on your behalf, he couldn't have been angrier if you'd been his own – if you'd been his –"

He was very nearly overcome with blushing and stammering, but managed to recover nicely.

"If you had been his own sister," he finished, in a neutral tone. He was avoiding her eyes, and she decided it best to make a graceful retreat from the subject of Mr. Carter.

"And what do you hear from your own brothers and sisters, Mr. Beckett?"

"Why, Joe's got married, Miss. We never thought to see him do it. Perhaps he had to go all the way to America to find someone who'd have him." Miss Galindo laughed.

"And in every letter Molly tells me I must emigrate too, that it's time. Ah, but I'll never see New York Harbor. I mean to stop in Cranford. Truly I do, Miss. I've done with going from one place to another."

"Still, who knows what life holds for you? You're a young man and may yet cross that ocean," she said, smiling and looking off in the distance.

"Perhaps, Miss, but I wouldn't lay money on it." He turned to look at her. "And you? You've told me of your travels. Do you mean to go back to Italy someday, or Germany?"

"Oh, Mr. Beckett, I could not possibly tell you. Perhaps one day. Perhaps never again."

That last thought ought to have made her sad. But truth to tell, she felt a certain relief, perhaps even pleasure, in coming to the realization that she did not long for coaches and trains and ships to carry her away. Her heart was in Cheshire, and there it would remain.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	17. House Calls

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks.  
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Many thanks to everyone for the feedback, support, and interest.

Any literary quotations contained here are in the public domain.

After a _very_ talky previous chapter, my Cranford denizens are still talking...and dealing with their various concerns in the winter of 1844. With fear and trembling I await your comments…

* * *

**Chapter 17: House Calls**

"Well, Miss Matty, would that we were not meeting under these circumstances!" Dr. Morgan smiled warmly at his patient, who was sitting upright in her bed, and quite demure in cap and shawl. The Jenkyns family had summoned him often enough over the years, and he was well acquainted with their every ailment. Yet Miss Matty had always proven surprisingly robust, and this call had been most unexpected.

"Indeed, Dr. Morgan, I did not wish to trouble you, but my brother was most insistent that you provide a diagnosis for my illness," said Miss Matty. "You'll find I have caught a chill, that is all, and perhaps you can set Peter's mind at rest."

"Well, I shall do my utmost not to disappoint him, Miss Matty; of that you may be certain. We shall have you up and about as soon as possible! Now let us see what has been troubling you."

* * *

In the years since he'd become a widower, Edward Carter had rarely received anyone in his own home. Indeed, his quarters were very nearly a place of business, with only household staff and himself passing through from one day to another, and silence reigning in the evenings as he saw to work or read for a while before falling asleep from exhaustion.

But after he'd spent a few days on a sickbed in the winter of 1844, such isolation and austerity seemed intolerable and, thanks to his friendship with Captain Brown, at last reached an end, for that good man would not leave Mr. Carter to himself, not when he was well enough to receive a visitor.

One evening the captain had arrived, hearty, good-humored, and, as usual, not empty-handed.

"Well, Carter, I cannot say that I trust I find you well, but you certainly look no worse for your recent troubles," said he.

"Oh, I'm nearly recovered, and Dr. Harrison has given me leave to resume my normal duties shortly. But it's very kind of you to visit, and kinder still to bring the book I requested. And what's this?"

"Some broth, of course -- the better to recover your strength. But I must say, Carter, I'm puzzled at your choice of reading during convalescence. I would have selected something more diverting than Shakespeare's histories."

"I intend to study **Henry V**, Captain -- a work I'd suppose you have an opinion on, given your own history," said Mr. Carter with a smile.

"Indeed. There are fine speeches in that, Carter, as well as some suggestion – perfectly true, I must tell you – that the life of a soldier consists more of cold and hunger, mud and blood, than of glory. Mind you, for all that I live simply enough now, such privations are long past for me."

"And that's no more than you deserve. I trust everyone in your household is well?"

"Oh, yes, thank God. The major is, as always, in excellent health, and as for Jessie, why, she is blooming, for all that it's winter. But perhaps 'blooming' is the wrong word, as she – well, you understand my meaning. But she is very well, and it is she who sent you the broth."

Carter smiled again. "That is very kind. You must give Mrs. Gordon my thanks."

"I will. She was very concerned for your welfare. Carter, I must say it's a great pity you do not have a wife, a daughter to look after you, to share--"

"My recent ailment, Captain Brown, is not one I'd care to share."

"Carter, you really ought to have studied law, or stood for Parliament, perhaps both. I have never met anyone fonder of an argument. I meant that a wife would share in your plans, your joys, your life."

"Oh, I understood your meaning." Slipping free of his reticence, Mr. Carter added, "Captain, this may well astonish you, but I did consider marrying again, not long ago."

Captain Brown responded in as neutral a tone as he could manage. He had waited a long time for his friend to make such an admission."You say 'did consider.' You did not make the lady an offer?"

"No."

The captain took that in, and a new thought occurred to him. "And has the lady done anything to lessen your esteem for her?"

"Oh, no. No, quite the contrary."

They remained in silence for a moment before Brown continued. "Carter, pardon my bluntness, but did you reconsider your plans after Harrison amputated your leg?"

He was ashamed to hear it at last put into words. "Yes."

"Well, then forgive me for what I am about to say, but I am a soldier and have seen every manner of violence done to the body that either a weapon or the surgeon's saw can inflict. Firstly, there's many a man who has suffered far worse, and secondly, any woman who would refuse you because of your injuries is not worthy of your regard. That is the hard truth, Carter, and I hope I do not offend you by saying it."

"No, no, I had rather you did."

Captain Brown hastened to add, "But pray don't mistake my counsel for reproach. Of course I lack your manners, your refinement." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as though conveying a great secret. "Carter, if I believed a lady would accept my offer of marriage, I would put forth my intentions in the plainest language, and have the banns read and her name changed as well, in the briefest possible span of time."

_So he had no designs on…he never meant to…_

With a deep, rumbling chuckle, Brown added, "But what woman really prefers such bluntness? No, Carter, a more gentlemanly approach ought to please your lady very well."

Carter looked thoughtful, for all that there was a bit of a smile on his lips. "Captain Brown, you do not so much as know her name."

"Carter, it may astonish you to learn I am not _entirely_ bereft of the power of observation, or imagination," said the captain, remembering that his daughter might quarrel with such a claim.

"No, you need confide nothing further to me," he added. "But I see your course of action in the simplest terms. All that remains is for you to determine the lady's feelings, and of course reveal your own."

* * *

"It seems to be influenza, Miss Galindo, a mild enough case of it, but still enough to keep you abed for a few days." Dr. Morgan put a hand to her forehead. "You're still a bit feverish."

"I still feel rather weak, a bit light-headed."

"You must rest for a few days. And you are becoming altogether too thin, I think. You must eat beef when you are fully recovered."

At that Miss Galindo's face turned paler still. "Indeed, Dr. Morgan, I do not think I could bear to hear discussion of food at this moment."

"No, you could not. I am sorry. But I think you have not been looking after yourself, and that must change. When you have recovered, and when the weather improves, you must take a daily walk. I have come to share Dr. Harrison's opinion that taking regular exercise is a most healthful practice for ladies."

This time she managed a smile. "Indeed, Dr. Morgan, I am a great walker, and in most weathers."

_But always alone_, he thought to himself. Other women traveled in pairs, or even in packs, God love them, yet Miss Galindo walked through the town and the woods in solitude.

"Yes. Well, spring is not far off, and the crocuses will soon be in bloom, and I shall see you out and about. And I quite forgot to mention to you that Mrs. Morgan sends her best wishes for your recovery, and says her tea service stands ready when you are past this illness."

Miss Galindo smiled again, this time in earnest, quite charming her careworn physician. "Doctor, please give Mrs. Morgan my kindest regards in return. I do hope she is well."

"Oh, yes! She continues in her usual health. I would that all the ladies of Cranford were flourishing as my wife does."

"You have not diagnosed many cases of influenza, Dr. Morgan?"

"Alas, Miss Galindo, there are a good many of them, I fear, in this season – far too many."

* * *

"First Miss Jenkyns, and now Miss Matty!"

"It can't be that bad, Martha. Miss Matty'll rally; I'm sure of it," Jem murmured, as his wife dissolved again into weeping. "Oh, love. Come here." He took his Martha in his arms, brushing away some of her tears with rough hands, kissing away the others, murmuring soothing words.

Martha pushed him away with strength born of indignation. "Here's Miss Matty dying and all you care about's your pleasure, Jem Hearne!"

"Martha, I was trying to give you comfort!" said Jem. It was really too unfair. Ever since Martha had been carrying their child, it had seemed he could do no right. Why, now, with Miss Matty abed with the fever, Martha had nothing but cross words for him. He didn't know what had become of the girl he'd courted in secret, who had turned pursuer herself when he was reluctant to marry --

Careful but brisk footsteps announced the approach of Mary Smith. "Martha! Jem!" she hissed from the entrance to the kitchen. "If you are going to quarrel, I'll thank you not to shout."

"I'm sorry, Miss Smith," said Martha, wiping her face on her apron, and shooting a reproachful look at her husband.

"How's Miss Matty?" said Jem, hoping to restore peace.

He was unprepared for the dismaying silence that greeted his question, and the tale that Miss Smith's expression told. If only to reassure himself, he tried again. "Oh, Miss Smith, surely she's not in – surely Miss Matty's not in any danger."

Mary's voice was barely audible, somewhere between a whisper and a sob. "We don't know, Jem."

"Shall I go fetch Dr. Harrison?" said Jem, looking from one woman to the other.

Martha had begun crying again, but silently this time, twisting her apron in her hands. "Oh, Jem, Dr. Morgan's been here already. He was here before you came home!" she said. This time she did not pull away when Jem's arm went about her shoulders.

"You see, Jem," said Mary Smith, struggling to keep her voice even. "You see, Dr. Morgan fears there's a chance of pneumonia."

* * *

_Rat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat! _

Sophy Harrison, eldest daughter of a clergyman, had spent her entire upbringing in a rectory under constant siege by the spiritually troubled and the desperate – nearly ideal training for her new life as a physician's wife, it turned out, though she had to admit that Frank's supplicants faced, if anything, problems that were often more daunting than those brought by her father's parishioners.

But for all that she had grown used to frantic knocking on the front door at various hours of the day and night -- particularly this week, when illness seemed to be spreading in the community with alarming speed – she took no pleasure in serving as the bearer of disappointing tidings whenever Frank was out on call and she was left by herself in the rooms above the surgery.

Today she opened the door to Miss Pole, who proved to be in a greater state of agitation than usual.

"Good day to you, Mrs. Harrison," said Miss Pole, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "I must speak with the doctor directly. It is a matter of the utmost importance." _Why, she's barely more than a girl, and already a physician's wife! Such is the state of things!_

Sophy managed a gentle smile, hoping to soften the blow she had to deliver. "Miss Pole, my husband has been called out to see a patient, but I will be happy to convey a message when he returns. Perhaps you could provide me guidance as to what report I should make to him."

"No, madam, you have quite misunderstood me. This cannot wait. It simply cannot. I must know where he has gone, and how far, that we may bring him back immediately, or else it may be too late."

Sophy was becoming disconcerted. "Miss Pole, if it is a matter of such urgency, perhaps you might go to Dr. Morgan and –"

Miss Pole snorted. "Dr. Morgan? Dr. Morgan? Indeed I have known that gentleman many a year, and revered him, but in this case he has utterly failed us – utterly failed us." She snorted again. "No, Mrs. Harrison, at such a time I'd call upon someone trained in the newest medical techniques, someone who studied under Sir Astley Paston Cooper himself. And in Cranford, that someone is your husband, not Dr. Morgan."

"Indeed, Miss Pole, I am sure Dr. Morgan provided the best advice and treatment he was able, and it is not necessary that my husband should –"

The pitch of Miss Pole's voice had risen alarmingly. "What can they be teaching them at Guy's, if physicians allow patients to linger at death's door while they themselves are gallivanting about the countryside?"

Had not Miss Pole's distress been so pronounced and so severe, Sophy might have angrily observed that her husband was not "gallivanting" but on a call to treat a child who had been badly scalded in a household mishap. Instead she adopted a soothing tone.

"Do sit down, Miss Pole, and rest yourself, and I shall send word to Dr. Morgan, who will surely come at once, if he is –"

"Mrs. Harrison, I do not care if Dr. Morgan comes at once, or ever," said Miss Pole shrilly. "He's already been to see Miss Matty -- indeed, several times -- and still there's no – she's – there's no – "

And Miss Pole broke off as her rage gave way to sobs.

* * *

_Dear Dr. Marshland:_

_Dr. Harrison will have likely conveyed to you some report of the trying fortnight he has spent as the influenza worked its terrible will on the people of Cranford. But possibly his obligations at work and at home have allowed him no leisure to write, and thus my account must suffice._

_Many in the community were stricken, and our usual merry and brisk hum of activity gave way to bleak silence in both street and parlor. Indeed, you would scarcely have recognized our own dear Cranford._

_All in our household were taken ill – Mr. Jenkyns, Miss Matty, Jem Hearne, myself – that is, all of us save Martha Hearne, of whose robust good health the entire village now stands in awe. Would that we were all so blessed!_

_As it was, Mr. Jenkyns, Mr. Hearne, and I suffered for only a few days, but Miss Matty fared worst, and I am not ashamed to confess that we all were desperately worried. Indeed Dr. Morgan feared that pneumonia might overtake her as well, but fortunately that suspicion proved groundless. _

_Miss Matty is still quite weak, though now well enough to receive visitors. If there is any good to be found in what has happened, it is the knowledge that true friends have shown themselves ready to provide comfort and assistance. My heart is quite moved at how many in our community have given evidence of their profound regard for Miss Matty, and have made efforts on her behalf. Truly it is only in the midst of adversity that one recognizes the extent of a friend's devotion._

_I do look forward to a letter from you, Dr. Marshland, as we have been so dispirited of late, and your wit might prove a tonic for poor Miss Matty. "What news from Dr. Marshland?" she always says when the post arrives, and I put on my spectacles and read suitable portions of your letters to her. I think she craves the diversion, and I know I enjoy providing it._

_But perhaps current responsibilities weigh quite as heavily upon you as upon Dr. Harrison – indeed, likely more so – and the infirmary has kept you from your writing desk. Yet I pray your burdens may be light, and your spirits high._

_Very truly yours,_

_Mary Smith_

_

* * *

_

"Hello, Miss Matty."

Miss Matty's eyes brightened as she saw the visitor at the door of her room. Miss Galindo really did have such a sweet smile, she thought, and it was a pity so few people ever saw it.

"Oh, Miss Galindo, how kind of you to come." She noticed the parcel in the younger woman's arms. "Oh, my dear, you did not bring the caps yourself!"

"I knew I would see you, Miss Matty, and I thought to spare you some trouble, especially as you are not to be out of doors."

"Goodness, there was no need for that, no need at all. Why, Mary could have collected them, and settled the account, or we might have waited until I was able to come myself."

"Please, Miss Matty, let us not talk of accounts! Indeed, you are not to worry about such things."

"Oh, no! I should not like to leave anything unpaid." Miss Matty gave an embarrassed chuckle. "And besides, we are not nearly as frugal a household today, now that Peter is among us again."

"Well, let us simply say that all that matters now is that you are making a good recovery, and all else must wait its turn."

"I am making a good recovery, and everyone has been so very kind. Do sit down, Miss Galindo," she added, gesturing to a chair by the night table.

As she took her seat, Miss Galindo glanced around the little room and noticed something completely unexpected hanging in a little frame on the wall.

"That is a very handsome silhouette, Miss Matty," said Miss Galindo. She was not close enough to read the inscription and the date. "I do not recognize the profile, though. Is it someone in your family?"

Miss Matty colored and said quietly, "No, my dear. No, that was taken of Mr. Thomas Holbrook, some 30 years ago."

"Thomas Holbrook. I confess I do not know the name."

"No, my dear. I do not think you would have cause to remember him," said Miss Matty solemnly.

"But you must have greatly esteemed him, if his portrait came into your possession."

Miss Matty made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. "Oh, that was Miss Pole's doing. Mr. Holbrook was her cousin, you see, and when he died, she kindly purchased the silhouette for me." Her eyes were wistful and her voice soft as she added, "And there it remains, and I see it when I wake in the morning, and again at night, just before I close my eyes." She looked again at the handsome image, then turned her gaze on the fire and said quietly, "Miss Galindo, do you ever think that if you could restore lost time – a day of your life, perhaps, or even but an afternoon, a few hours – you might alter the course of all that came after?"

"I admit to regrets, Miss Matty, and many mistakes, but as to decisions I took, or words I said, I cannot say with certainty I would go back and undo most of them, even if it were in my power to do so."

"In that we are perhaps very different, Miss Galindo. I have come to believe that I expended precious months, allowed time to pass out of my hands most carelessly, when I might have recognized the days for what they were and made better use of them. I am not bold. I have never been bold, and yet --"

Her eyes were filling with tears, and she broke suddenly from her musings, declaring briskly, "Oh, but you must not mind what I say. One tends to think too much during convalescence. I dare say when I return downstairs, I shall become quite sensible again."

"You are always sensible, Miss Matty. But we do want you back downstairs again, and soon."

"I shall rally, Miss Galindo. It is the very least I owe to Peter and Mary -- and to Martha and Jem, of course," she added, with a husky laugh.

* * *

Sleep was evading him again this evening, for all that his illness was well past, and Mr. Carter set the candle on his bedside table and sought out the volume of Shakespeare Captain Brown had brought from the bookseller's.

Harry had quite liked hearing the passages from **Henry V**, for all that the language proved vexing – "It all sounds very grand, Mr. Carter, even if I don't always know what folk are saying" – and of course he was immensely proud that the king and he shared the same name.

They had done nothing with Act V as yet, however, and Mr. Carter wondered whether it might not in the end prove too dry after what had come before. Still, he must study it himself before sharing it with Harry, and tonight was as good a night as any to finish reading the play.

Dear God, here was more French to struggle with. He'd have to apply to Miss Galindo again for help with that. He had never learned French, and he'd admitted as much to Harry, who didn't much care one way or the other but had still laughed a great deal when Miss Galindo had attempted to teach Mr. Carter to pronounce a few words.

Well, at least Shakespeare had included English enough for him to follow.

_Fair Katherine, and most fair,  
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms  
Such as will enter at a lady's ear  
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?_

Here was another challenge for Shakespeare's warrior-king to face: a woman. Better to wade into fierce battle against the French hordes than face one lady, with wit and voice his only weapons.

And for all that the king claimed his speech was plain – Mr. Carter thought again of Captain Brown's counsel on wooing -- the man kept talking.

_A good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a  
black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow  
bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax  
hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the  
moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it  
shines bright and never changes, but keeps his  
course truly. If thou would have such a one, take  
me…_

It was becoming difficult to read. The candle's light burned strongly still, and yet to Mr. Carter's eyes the words on the page were blurring. He must read on -- no, he must read the same words again. Wiping his eyes with one hand, he read the king's speech to the princess once more, and then again, and then again.

_If thou would have such a one, take me…_

And then he read everything beyond -- the courtship conducted in a torrent of French and English, concluded with bold kisses, and then what came after, right to the unsettling words from the Chorus that brought the play to a close. When he had read it all to the last word, he put out the candle and lay awake for a time, thinking again of King Harry's address to Katherine.

Captain Brown was right. The course of action was simple, whether one was a monarch or a soldier, or even Lady Ludlow's estate manager.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	18. Lessons in Love

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks. **

**

* * *

**

Thomas Holbrook's quotation is from the marvelous screenplay for the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**.

The phrase "more strongly than accurately" comes from Elizabeth Gaskell's **My Lady Ludlow**.

* * *

_In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love._ Mother Teresa

* * *

**Chapter 18: Lessons in Love**

It actually was rather cozy, sitting together of a Sunday afternoon, the three of them, in Mr. Carter's office. It was the only time, the only place, it seemed, that they could advance Harry's education by inches – and be together, without apology, though only thanks to Lady Ludlow's sanction and the refuge that was Hanbury.

Bella Gregson would have rather had the boy at home, of course, but did not wish to stand in the way as her son slipped free of the burdens they'd put on him, she and Job. And if Job as yet bore ill will towards Mr. Carter, Bella never would, not when that good man had seen what she had: that Harry was her wise child, and really not so much of a child anymore. When Mr. Carter had put forth his plans for Harry honorably and directly, Bella had dared to cherish hopes for her son, to imagine he would never struggle as his parents did. Job didn't approve of books and suchlike, of course, but perhaps someday he'd come round, when he saw what his son was making of himself.

As for Harry, it felt more like a holiday than study when he helped Mr. Carter make up a fire in his office with the fuel he'd brought, and the light cast a glow on Miss Galindo's face as she sat there, reading aloud in her enchanting voice, or perhaps arguing with Mr. Carter.

She was sure to bring a book with her, something to amuse or challenge Harry, and today she'd surprised him with a book of French fairy tales – in translation, of course, though she was really coming to believe the boy might be ready for proper lessons in the language itself. He was of a good age, she said, and eager to learn, and she had taken to dropping hints of lessons in French or perhaps in German, though Mr. Carter suggested it might be a better use of the boy's time to study Latin or Greek.

As for Mr. Carter, the only language he had was English, and that clearly hard, plain, and in his own accent.

"Miss Galindo, I see no reason to lapse into French when good, plain English will serve our purposes just as well," he said during the history lesson.

"Upon my word, Mr. Carter, you cannot mean to object to my referring to King Richard as _Richard Coeur de Lion_. Why, even Shakespeare provided a very good joke in King Henry referring to himself as _Harry le Roy_," said Miss Galindo, with a smile at their own Harry. "Morever, Mr. Carter, Richard himself spoke French."

"Well, that was all very well for the king in his day, but you must attune to the times. Our own queen --"

"Speaks German."

"_And_ English."

"_And_ the prince consort speaks German," added Miss Galindo triumphantly, as Harry suppressed a giggle.

Mr. Carter sighed. "Very well, Miss Galindo. I concede that particular point. But let us make only the most sparing use of French expressions. You have mastered them, and so may Harry, but but I am too old to learn another language."

"By no means, Mr. Carter. It's just the pronunciation. You must abandon old habits and bear in mind that you are no longer forming English words, you are forming French words, or attempting to -- and your mouth must – that is, your lips must – well, you produce the sounds by –"

And Miss Galindo broke off helplessly, no longer certain of how to phrase her instructions to her unwilling pupil.

"Your face is all red, Miss Galindo," piped up Harry, who had been watching the impromptu lesson unfold.

"Harry!" said Miss Galindo, half laughing.

"Harry," growled Mr. Carter, almost simultaneously.

"But it looks very pretty," added the boy.

"Harry!" barked Mr. Carter again.

Harry turned innocent eyes on his mentor. "I thought ladies liked com- -- com- -- "

"Compliments?" inserted Miss Galindo helpfully.

"Yes, compliments. I thought ladies liked compliments."

"You are far too young to be concerned with paying compliments to ladies," said Miss Galindo. She turned to Mr. Carter. "Just what is it that you have been teaching Harry?"

She looked suspiciously prim as she put the question, though Harry was convinced he saw a secret smile as she watched Mr. Carter blush in his turn.

But her triumph was short-lived. "Why, Miss Galindo, Harry and I have been making a study of British history and literature, which are of course replete with examples of courage, honor, and the other_ masculine _virtues, as it were. I trust you can have no objection to that." Summoning his old sternness, he held her gaze this time, until _she_ blushed and looked away.

Harry was watching, utterly puzzled, as Miss Galindo rallied once again.

"Indeed, Mr. Carter, I have never objected to the study of literature and history, or for that matter virtue." She again looked directly into his eyes and added silkily, "But we are forgetting the task at hand."

Mr. Carter sat up straighter. "Yes, indeed we are. Harry, you will read the next passage."

* * *

It was with an effort that Miss Galindo announced it was time for her to go home. If the disappointment in Harry's eyes did not astonish her, the look on Mr. Carter's face did, but she still had to refuse his offer to see her back to the village. No, that would not do, not on a mild Sunday afternoon, and certainly not when sharp eyes were all about.

"It is a very fine day, and I need to be out of doors." That was true enough; she needed to feel the cold air on her face. "My physician would have me take regular exercise," she added, silently blessing Dr. Morgan for the ready excuse.

But Mr. Carter did not simply let her slip away; he stood up and waited as she made her preparations to depart, until Harry was half-convinced that Mr. Carter was about to help Miss Galindo on with her cloak and tie her bonnet ribbons for her. He didn't remember Mr. Carter ever behaving that way before.

"I like Miss Galindo," said Harry to Mr. Carter when that lady had at last vanished out the door. "I don't know anyone as clever -- except for you, sir," added Harry, with a thoroughly disarming smile.

Dear God, he was going to have to keep an eye on this boy. It wouldn't do to show such charm at an early age. What would Harry be like at twenty-one?

Mr. Carter endeavored to remain solemn. "Harry, you must use more delicacy when speaking to Miss Galindo. She's not one of your sisters."

"What's – sir, I don't know that word you just used."

"Delicacy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, when I say you must use delicacy, I mean you should show respect, use good manners."

"I'm trying to do everything you taught me, Mr. Carter."

"Yes, I see that, Harry, and you are doing very well, but there are still many things to learn. You know how you must behave with Lady Ludlow, for instance."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Miss Galindo is not quite of the same rank, though she is the daughter of friends of my lady."

Harry thought of something. "Sir, have I seen her mother and father visiting here at Hanbury?"

"No, Harry. Miss Galindo's parents died -- and her brothers and sisters as well," he added.

Harry went very quiet at that. A moment later he said, apropos of nothing, "I'm glad you are not angry with Miss Galindo anymore."

"Angry? When was I angry with Miss Galindo?"

"You were very cross when she came to work in the office, and you quarreled with her. She's always been very kind to me, sir, but she quarreled with _you_. That I remember," he added, as if that proved something.

"But you like Miss Galindo now," Harry added. "So it's all right."

"Yes, Harry. I like Miss Galindo very much."

* * *

But it wasn't all right. It broke his very heart to see Miss Galindo go on her way, alone, when, in another time, he might have accompanied her, or indeed never have had to see her go at all.

Oh, over the past weeks he'd managed to find moments with her – not a simple task, when new problems at Hanbury seemed to come at him from every direction – and to circumvent the hundred fiendish obstacles that always seemed to stand between them. Since December he'd exploited nearly any excuse to see her, to touch her, always under innocent guises, of course. It took very little to set tongues wagging in Cranford, and he'd be damned if he was going to subject her to a fresh round of public scrutiny, not after the cruel talk about her and Beckett that past autumn.

Still, as Lady Ludlow had once observed, Laurentia Galindo was not only clever but spirited, and indeed had rallied after the troubles of the past months. In fact he sensed she was very nearly her provocative, witty self again -- his Miss Galindo of old, all brown eyes and _bons mots_. Why, now she was teaching him to use French, for all his protests, and squabbling with him again. But the arguments were pleasanter this time, more satisfying than he'd remembered.

Still, there were the twin problems of where and how to see her, given all the recent awkwardness. Of course he'd paid calls to her before -- once to tender an apology, which he'd never even managed to utter, and the second time to persuade her to return to Hanbury.

But now he'd have to be discreet enough to prevent any additional gossip, and so it had remained that Hanbury was the safest place for them to meet, and if that was all for business too – reporting to her ladyship, keeping accounts, seeing to Harry's lessons – it had been Miss Galindo herself who had ensured they would indeed see each other there more frequently.

And it was all to Harry's good to have Miss Galindo share in teaching him. It wasn't only her patience and gentleness, but her knowledge and experience – her travels, her artist's eye, her ear for music and language – that opened worlds to the boy that Mr. Carter might only have hinted at. Miss Galindo was their Scheherazade, their spinner of tales and weaver of spells. Harry could have happily listened to her for hours, and so could Mr. Carter.

But there would come a time, and soon, when it would be Mr. Carter who would speak to _her_, and in private. He'd always been a plain-spoken man, and now was in need of words of infinite tenderness. Surely a look, an occasional touch had not been enough to convey his wishes and his dreams, and how fervently he hoped she might share in both.

Yes, there was happiness in these brief hours together, but they neither of them could afford to be profligate with time. He hoped -- no, he believed, he had to believe -- that when he opened his heart to her, she would see that they might always find their happiness side by side.

* * *

It was an unusually mild day, and Miss Galindo found the air bracing rather than biting as she made her way back to Cranford. It was fortunate that the weather had cooperated with their Sunday plans; she didn't know what things would have come to if Cranford had been subject to sudden snowstorms or monsoons.

Her solitary walk to and from Hanbury Court afforded her time in the outdoors and leisure for thinking, and while both were most welcome, it had been difficult to tear herself away from the company, to leave Harry and Mr. Carter to the fireside and their books and talk, when she would much rather have remained with them.

And she had to wonder what it might have been like, in another time, to walk with Mr. Carter over fields and through woods, and to have the luxury of speaking of anything that pleased them, or not speaking at all, if they wished. But that opportunity was clearly long past, and it grieved her, for all that it hadn't been entirely of her making or his.

Still, she had initiated this latest plan, the additional lessons for Harry, and Mr. Carter had not only embraced it but put it into action immediately.

But the greater surprise had been Lady Ludlow's reaction.

Her ladyship had once observed that a woman in Miss Galindo's situation required an independent spirit. Perhaps that was why, when she had assisted Mr. Beckett, her ladyship had proven more forgiving than some in village who to this day offered malicious whispers and hostile looks.

But as she began her second foray as teacher, she had spoken first to Lady Ludlow, less for her sanction than to put secrets and subterfuge behind. Lady Ludlow's expression on hearing the plan had been most enigmatic; she displayed neither astonishment nor the expected disapproval, but appeared oddly contented. Whether this was due to an alteration in her ladyship's own attitudes or the entreaties of Mr. Carter, or perhaps both, Miss Galindo could not say.

And this time Miss Galindo took great care not to excite attention with mysterious comings and goings of male callers to her doorstep, and that meant, of course, the solitary walk to and from Hanbury Court, and the leisure to consider just what it was she had embarked upon.

* * *

Miss Matty heard sniffling as she entered the kitchen. It was baking day, and Martha was up to her elbows in dough, and having a difficult time of it.

"Martha, I do hope you have not caught cold."

"No, Miss Matty," replied Martha, wiping her face on her sleeve.

"Why, you have been crying again. Whatever has happened?"

"Oh, Miss Matty, it's all foolishness – nothing you'd want to hear."

"I do want to hear of anything that is causing you to weep." Martha's face crumpled at that, and Matty hastened to produce a handkerchief for her. "There. And you may rest assured that I shall say not a word of this to anyone else."

Martha dabbed at her eyes and nose. "It's Jem, of course. We had a little quarrel, only it grew and grew. Oh, Miss Matty, it was a silly matter. Jem brought me sweets – now, when I'm so big and fat –"

"I think, Martha, he was only trying to lift your spirits."

"It wasn't my spirits he was trying to lift," said Martha bitterly, thinking of how Jem and she had courted in secret, in kisses and caresses stolen whenever and wherever they could manage. She'd been eager enough then, and so had he, and now…

"So you had words with Jem."

Martha's tears began again. "He said some terrible things, and I said a lot worse back, and now he's not speaking to me at all, and I don't think he loves me anymore and –"

She ended her speech in a sob.

"Martha, you are not long married, and there is so much ahead of you." Martha began to wail again at that, much to Miss Matty's discomfiture. "Now, now, Martha, I mean you have all the joys of life before you. You are loved by a good man – yes, Martha, I do not doubt that -- a man who wed you and is making a home for you and will be a father to your child.

"I know it is trying now, Martha, and possibly you feel you are alone. But I also see what you have been to me, and I like to pay my honest debts. I shall not allow you to wear yourself out with fretting or bustling about, either now or after your baby is born. You may always apply to me for counsel or assistance." At that Martha's tears flowed afresh, then stopped all at once as her expression changed. "Oh, he's kicking again!" she exclaimed, with both hands on her belly.

At that indelicate announcement, Miss Matty could sense Deborah's disapproving glare all the way from heaven. But she couldn't resist giving vent to a chuckle. "Is he? How wonderful, Martha. Now I will finish the preparations here – "

"Beg your pardon, Miss Matty, but I'll be better for doing something. _I'll_ finish my baking," said Martha briskly, managing a smile.

"Well, then I will assist _you_, and afterwards we shall put the kettle on, and enjoy a nice cup of tea. Now go wash your face while I look after things for the moment. Go on."

* * *

The two voices coming from the sitting room were rising and falling, and Matty could only hear tantalizing elements of the discussion, single words – always verbs, oddly -- _encouraged_, _allowed_, _led_, _parted_ – until she was uncertain which had been said by Mary's voice and which by the –

Oh, dear. She knew that second voice. Dr. Marshland had arrived, and she'd been in the kitchen sorting out Martha's woes while Mary had been in the sitting room with him the entire time.

Once again Matty could very nearly feel Deborah's disapproving gaze, this time at the prospect of a young woman entertaining a gentleman in their very home, and without so much as a companion present.

Matty steeled herself to enter the room and found Mary looking uncharacteristically tense. Indeed, she seemed fully as rattled as she had done at the lawn fete at Hanbury, when Mrs. Clara Smith had arrived from Manchester, children in tow, and proceeded to take her stepdaughter in hand.

"Dr. Marshland, I had no idea you were back in Cranford. How delightful to see you."

Dr. Marshland's smile was all charm. "And you, Miss Matty. I trust I find you well."

"Oh, quite well, thank you."

"Thank God. I know from Miss Smith's letters that she was very concerned for your welfare." At that an awkward silence fell on the three of them, which Dr. Marshland broke by continuing, "Still, now I'm here, and Miss Smith has been telling me all the news of Cranford's mad social whirl."

"Oh, I do not know that there is much to report these days, Dr. Marshland," said Miss Matty with a modest smile. "But I trust you find Cranford pleasant enough, and perhaps a welcome change from Manchester."

"Oh, Miss Matty, I do not think I've seen anything to equal Cranford in all my travels." There was an edge to his voice, but then he continued, more softly, "And speaking of travel, I really ought to be on my way."

"Oh, not so soon," cried Miss Matty, dismayed.

"I must return to my hosts, Dr. and Mrs. Harrison." Dr. Marshland took her hand. "Goodbye, Miss Matty."

He cast a glance at Mary, who had her hands clasped primly at her waist. "Godspeed, Dr. Marshland." She curtsied most formally, and spoke not another word as he took his leave.

* * *

On the morning of the second Saturday in February, Miss Galindo took a short inventory of the books still in her possession. She'd brought very little to her rooms when she had arrived years back – some modest furniture, a few keepsakes from her family, and not much else. Yet even now she had a modest library to call her own, including a few books from her girlhood. Surely there must be something there that would be of use to Harry.

Alas, she was sadly lacking in anything concerning science or mathematics, but there was a book on plants and flowers that might do for a bit of study. The volumes of verse and of essays would also likely meet with Mr. Carter's approval, and of course there were works on art and history, as well a representation of books in the modern languages. Well, she'd simply have to choose something on the morrow, and discuss the rest with Mr. Carter and Harry.

She then spent the morning and part of the afternoon waiting upon clients in the shop, afterwards walking out to perform errands, still pondering her list of items to bring to Harry. Thus distracted, she very nearly collided with Dr. Marshland outside Mrs. Rhys's flower shop in the High Street.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon!" Recognizing him, she added, "Forgive me, Dr. Marshland. I did not see you."

"Miss Galindo, light on your feet, as always, and looking well!" said Marshland, with a winning smile. "I've not seen you since earlier this winter."

"No, Dr. Marshland, not since Twelfth Night. I take it you have been very busy at the infirmary?"

His smile faded. "Indeed we have, as you can well imagine. But my – my _informants_ tell me that there has also been trouble in Cranford since last I was here."

Miss Galindo looked sober in her turn. "Indeed there has been, but I need not tell a physician what it meant to put that behind us. You have seen Miss Matty?"

"Yes, Miss Galindo, I've had the pleasure of calling at the Jenkyns home, and satisfied myself that everyone there seems quite recovered, including Miss Matty.

"But of course I'm staying with the Harrisons," he added quickly. "You know Frank and I trained together at Guy's."

"Of course. And the two of you arranged Mr. Carter's medical care in London, as I recall," said Miss Galindo. "Lady Ludlow was most impressed by your efforts, Dr. Marshland, and for that matter so was Mr. Carter."

"And how is Mr. Carter these days?"

Miss Galindo smiled. "Very well. Very energetic!" she added.

Marshland chuckled. "I'm glad to hear it." But he looked distracted; he kept gazing past Miss Galindo to something or someone unseen, and all at once he said, in a most conspiratorial whisper, "Miss Galindo, it seems you have an admirer."

The Irishman nodded in the appropriate direction, and when Miss Galindo turned round, she saw Harry Gregson standing near, cap in hand, awaiting a pause in their conversation.

* * *

Harry was trying to remember where and when he'd seen the man before. Clearly he wasn't from the village, or he'd have known him at once. The man was young, certainly younger than Dada, a good deal younger than Mr. Carter, and wore the clothes of a gentleman. And he spoke like no other man Harry knew, in a higher, lilting voice.

"Harry! I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow," said Miss Galindo, astonished but still pleased.

"Tom and I were sent to the marketplace, Miss." Tom had told him to wait near the flower shop while he attended to business, and Harry suspected very much that the "business" was in the taproom at the George. Still, he wasn't about to reveal that to the stranger, or even to Miss Galindo.

Miss Galindo turned to the man and said, "Dr. Marshland, surely you remember Harry Gregson. And Harry, this is Dr. Marshland from the Manchester Infirmary."

"What's an infirmary?" asked Harry.

"It's a place where mad fellows like me try to heal people of all their ills," said the man, with a grin.

"Are you a surgeon, sir?"

"I'm a physician. Most days I'm coaxing some sad soul to take a pill or put on a pair of spectacles," said Dr. Marshland. "But I'm no stranger to the operating-room. Why, I even assisted your Dr. Harrison here in Cranford, not nine months back."

"Dada doesn't like surgeons. Or physicians," said Harry, with a look that suggested he quite agreed.

"Harry," began Miss Galindo.

Dr. Marshland replied evenly, "I don't blame your Dada. Some of us are rascals, even fools." He winked at Harry. "Though Frank Harrison does his best, as I think everyone in Cranford knows."

He turned again to Miss Galindo. "But you must excuse me, Miss. I've some business to conduct." And with smile, a nod, and a touch of his hat brim for her, and a final wink for Harry, he vanished inside Mrs. Rhys's shop.

* * *

In all the time he'd known Miss Galindo, she had never given him a cross word or displayed a second's impatience, not even when he peppered her with questions, not even when he nearly arrived late for the May Day pageant. But at this moment it was clear she was disappointed in him – and that, thought Harry miserably, after he'd promised Mr. Carter he would remember his manners.

"Harry, why did you speak to Dr. Marshland in that way?"

"Dada says surgeons cut up people like a butcher does a pig," he said stubbornly. "He says that doctors –"

"Harry, I know Mr. Carter has taught you better than that," she said. "Surely he's told you about science, how physicians like Dr. Marshland make a study of the body and seek to effect healing. You've nothing to fear from him, Harry, or from Dr. Harrison, for that matter."

"I was afraid at what they did to Mr. Carter. Dada says they tied him down like an animal and chopped off his leg --"

"Oh, Harry."

* * *

All these months later, and such images still retained the power of a blow.

Mr. Carter, scarred, bloodied, in tremendous pain, lying on the table in Dr. Harrison's surgery…

"_Come back to me…"_

She was at his side again, writing swiftly as he dictated the terms of his will, struggling to suppress her tears while he…

"Miss Galindo, I'm sorry."

"Harry. Harry, come over here." She put a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as to comfort him, and they both moved to the bench some distance from the entrance of the shop.

She looked into Harry's large, solemn eyes and saw fear, and perhaps it did not matter if it stemmed from those painful days and weeks in the past year or the conversation the two of them must have at this moment.

"Oh, Harry," she said tenderly. "Is there anyone among us – you, myself, even Lady Ludlow – who would not pay any price to have spared Mr. Carter what he suffered, to have kept him from --"

By now the tears were running down her face, and she fell silent. Harry laid a light hand on hers as she began to speak again, her voice breaking.

"He saw the risks, and yet had very little choice in the matter, and so he consented to the operation. And he had to be brave, Harry, whether he -- whether he thought he could --"

She broke off, unable to continue, and felt the boy's hand tighten around her own, saw his tears drop upon her cloak.

"And you must not blame Dr. Harrison, Harry," she added with surprising firmness, "or Dr. Marshland. What they did actually was quite remarkable."

"I don't see that, Miss."

"Harry -- Harry, I don't want to tell you this, but --"

"Mr. Carter might have died?" he said in a low voice.

She spoke not a word but only nodded, and again was aware of the light pressure of Harry's hand on hers.

"Mr. Beckett told me Mr. Carter was lucky. I didn't believe him then." He was silent for a long moment, then looked again into Miss Galindo's face.

She smiled at Harry through her tears. "It is a curious sort of luck. He deserves so much better," she said. "You see, Harry, even in his pain, he'd not forgotten you, not forgotten Lady Ludlow --"

"Harry Gregson! I've been looking for you." Tom bore down on him with a fury, and grabbed him by the sleeve. "We must go back to Hanbury. Now, Harry. Now!" And without hesitation he dragged the boy off, as Harry struggled to cast a look of farewell at Miss Galindo.

* * *

_Oh, Harry, Harry, I wanted to spare you that, and surely Mr. Carter did as well. But I've not revealed all his secrets, only told you enough to tear open the wounds, to lay bare all the scars of the past year. For all that you know his worth, know his kindness, there is so much more you cannot know, at least not yet. _

_I think fate is cruelest to those most deserving of happiness. But perhaps I expressed that more strongly than accurately; Mr. Carter, despite what he suffered, was not torn away from us after all, and we each of us still have him. _

_That is, we have him after a fashion. He keeps his heart well-guarded, for all that it's tender and generous. I wish that I might achieve that heart, even deserve it. Surely the latter is impossible, but I must attempt the former, or regret it all my days._

_Tomorrow I will see him again, and perhaps discover my way forward. I have wasted such precious days, such precious months._

_Tomorrow I will see him again._

_

* * *

_

"I'd have thought you would have called on Miss Smith this evening, Jack," said Dr. Harrison, taking another sip of port.

"Ah, Frank, now why would I do that?"

"Well, firstly, I'd observe you have paid a great deal of attention to Miss Smith, and secondly that you talk of no one else."

"Don't be daft. I send a letter now and then to make her laugh, and I might pay a call when I'm in town. Now where's the harm in that?"

"Oh, it's gone beyond correspondence and calls, Jack. I'd wager I'll be dancing at your wedding within a twelvemonth and standing godfather to your son by – "

Jack snorted. "Then you'll empty your pockets, Frank," he said. "No one's going to slip the bridle and reins over me."

Frank grinned confidently. "Spoken like one who has been _thoroughly_ tamed." And he made a whinnying noise to complete the insult.

"I was wondering how long it would take you two to get into the port," said Sophy Harrison as she entered the room. She looked from her husband to Dr. Marshland. "Thick as thieves as usual, I see. Nothing ever changes."

"Oh, my love, Dr. Marshland and I were merely discussing…equestrian pursuits," said Frank with a giggle.

"Helen and Lizzie are not as giddy as the two of you, sometimes," said Sophy affectionately, ignoring the fact that for once Jack was not laughing along with Frank, "_or_ as prone to gossip. I expect you'll want to talk into the night, as usual."

"No, I'll not keep Frank up past his bedtime," said Dr. Marshland, getting to his feet. "Good night, Mrs. Harrison, and mind the reins. This one's very spirited."

* * *

In her little room across town, Miss Matty still had the candle burning on her bedside table. She gazed across the room to at the silhouette of Thomas Holbrook, and thought again of a passage in one of his letters, a letter she'd received but a year ago: "Winter is the darkest season when one is alone."

Indeed it was, and yet she had not felt so terribly alone today, not in this cozy house filled with noise and trouble. It all ought to have preyed upon Matty's nerves, as it surely would have on Deborah's, had she been there and inclined to countenance any of it. And Deborah never would have tolerated such goings-on; of that her sister was certain.

Miss Matty chuckled to herself. She was becoming quite daring at last, perhaps out of necessity, but there you had it. Such was the state of things in the household. And if it was winter now, a season of natural stillness and dormancy, life was stirring in every respect, even if much of it was disguised as trouble.

Still, spring was not far off, not now, with the possibility that all might be resolved satisfactorily then.

Miss Matty looked again at the silhouette. "Good night, then," she said. "It has been _such _a day." And with that she put out the candle.

* * *

Miss Galindo had been in a curious mood that afternoon, thought Mr. Carter. She'd seemed at once unusually subdued and yet not especially silent, and she and Harry had displayed a notable rapport. There were moments, Mr. Carter thought, when perhaps it might have been better if he had quietly withdrawn from the room and left them to it. But every time he'd had that impulse, Miss Galindo had turned to him for help, for an observation, for an opinion. He didn't know what to make of it, or the expression in her eyes, or the fact that she'd not once teased him this afternoon. Curious.

When she rose to make preparations to return to Cranford, he and Harry stood up to see her off.

"I do wish you did not have to leave so soon, Miss Galindo," said Mr. Carter helplessly.

Miss Galindo, tying on her bonnet, at last offered him a dimpled smile, for all that there was yet a strange wistfulness in her eyes. "With the shorter days, I really must be on my way early," she said, with some of her accustomed briskness. Then she added, more softly, "But spring is not far off, Mr. Carter. Everything will surely change in the spring."

And she put out her hand for him to clasp, as Harry stood watching the two of them with his large, solemn eyes.

* * *

"Well, Harry, I think Miss Galindo was pleased with your work today."

"Thank you, sir. I tried to remember everything you told me last week."

"You did very well, Harry," said Mr. Carter kindly.

Harry felt an overwhelming urge to confess, for all that it threatened to undo everything that had just been said.

"Sir, I saw Miss Galindo in the village yesterday."

"You did?"

"Yes, sir, when Tom and I were sent to the market." Harry swallowed. "And I think I did something wrong, something you wouldn't like, sir."

Mr. Carter's expression was grave. "Go on."

"Miss Galindo was talking to Dr. Marshland, sir, from the Manchester In- -- from Manchester – "

"You mean Dr. Marshland of the Manchester Infirmary, Harry."

"Yes, sir. And I told him my Dada didn't like surgeons and physicians. Dr. Marshland almost laughed at that, but Miss Galindo didn't."

"Hm. Harry, Dr. Marshland took no offense because you are a boy, but you won't always be so, and you must learn when to hold your tongue."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Well, I suppose there is no harm done, and you have learned a lesson."

Harry struggled for one last bit of courage to speak. "I haven't told you everything, sir."

Mr. Carter sighed. "What else happened, Harry?"

"I made her cry."

"What! Miss Galindo?"

"Yes, sir."

"And how did you make her cry?"

"I said – sir, I talked to her about what happened – about your leg, sir. About what the doctors did to you."

* * *

_To be continued…_


	19. The Mighty Heart

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks.**

**Many, many thanks for all the reviews, interest, and support.**

**

* * *

**

_To fight out a war, you must believe something and want something with all your might. So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching. More than that, you must be willing to commit yourself to a course, perhaps a long and hard one, without being able to foresee exactly where you will come out. All that is required of you is that you should go somewhither as hard as ever you can. The rest belongs to fate. _Oliver Wendell Holmes

* * *

**Chapter 19: The Mighty Heart**

He had cried, of course. He had known full well that as soon as he tried to explain to Mr. Carter what had happened, he wouldn't be able to hold back his tears.

But Mr. Carter was not like Dada, or even Mum. Dada would have told him to be silent, to go on now, and Mum would have stroked his hair and said he shouldn't worry – that is, if she'd had time to comfort him at all.

Mr. Carter had offered Harry his handkerchief and then listened.

* * *

"What did you say to her, Harry?" Mr. Carter tried to speak as softly as possible, so as not to trouble the boy further, and yet the words sounded gruff, accusatory.

Harry, his head bowed, could not speak for a moment. At last he murmured, "I told her Dada said they tied you down and – "

He couldn't continue, and Mr. Carter kept silence while Harry wept. Then the boy looked up at him. "She cried when I said that."

"Harry, what you don't understand is that Miss Galindo was there." His tone had suddenly become gentle, so gentle he astonished himself.

The boy's eyes widened. "She saw it when you – she saw it when they – "

"No, she was in the next room, with Lady Ludlow. They waited – they waited for the doctors to finish." _They no doubt heard everything, though._

"She said she wished she could stop it," Harry added, watching Mr. Carter's expression.

"Stop what, Harry?" said Mr. Carter.

"What the doctors did to you." He added, "She said you had no choice, and you were brave."

Mr. Carter closed his eyes_. Brave. Dear God, no. No, not at all, not at all._

"And she said you might have died," Harry added quietly. His tears had stopped, but there was still pain in his eyes.

"That's all true, Harry," said Mr. Carter. "Well, not the part about my being brave." And he managed a wintry smile, which the boy was still too distraught to take for comfort. "Harry, what you must understand is that Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland did their best, and that I am a very fortunate man to have come through such an operation."

"That's what Miss Galindo said, and Mr. Beckett too."

"Well, then we are all agreed," said Mr. Carter, again with a sort of grim contentment.

"No, sir." Harry felt emboldened. "Miss Galindo said you deserved better, and that you thought of other people when you were in pain yourself."

It was a moment before Mr. Carter could speak again. "Did she tell you anything else?"

"She said she wished you hadn't suffered, sir. She said she'd have paid any price to stop it." And at that he shyly looked Mr. Carter in the eye.

* * *

_Harry, I would have spared you that. God knows what your father has been saying to you, though I can easily guess why. _

_And still Miss Galindo cannot have told you everything, neither all that was said nor all that was done. Surely she would not have._

_And you weep now. And if I'd died? If I'd died, you'd surely have wept then, and yet I'd have still left you reason enough to rejoice. It might have been easier then for you, Harry, and perhaps for everyone._

_And yet Morgan spoke some nonsense about my being spared for a higher purpose. Well, maybe it is time to prove him right._

_

* * *

_

It grieved Mr. Carter that Harry had been brought to weep, and on his account. Why torment the boy? What possible good could that do? But he had cried, and Mr. Carter had attempted to reassure him.

Harry's tears were troubling enough, but what of his account of a weeping Miss Galindo? That could not be so, not so many months later, and yet Harry would not lie. In fact he'd been so distraught he'd felt compelled to confess. Miss Galindo in tears.

Mr. Carter willed himself back into the memory of that day the previous spring. They'd brought him back from the site of the explosion and taken him right to Dr. Harrison's door, where Miss Galindo had appeared out of nowhere. She must have been there in the street when the cart carrying him and Captain Brown had arrived.

The men had brought him inside and left him lying on the table, and he'd sent Miss Galindo off to perform several commissions, but not without remembering to ask her to return to him with a pen and ink.

And so she had come back to where he was lying and fulfilled the last of the tasks he'd set her. She was most businesslike, if decidedly pert, but she did everything he asked.

And he had taken her into his confidence, revealing not only the terms of his will but another, bleaker secret: He had seen his likely fate, he told her, and would not allow her to disclose that to Harrison by asking him to witness the document. She would have to sign it herself.

And when it came time for him to write his own name above hers, his hand was so unsteady that she gently guided him through the signature. In that moment he felt her caress – a gesture of comfort to a dying man, he believed at the time, and yet when he thought of it now he recognized its tenderness.

He had looked up at her and found her face contorted, as if with pain. She was nearly in tears -- so sad, yet so beautiful. _This is, perhaps, the last face I shall see on this Earth_, he'd thought.

But he forced himself to remember beyond that – his descent into agony, then merciful unconsciousness. His wretched, maimed self strapped on that table, as Harrison, Marshland, and Miss Smith worked to save him.

And pitiful though he was, his heart had endured, and he awoke to life, and to Miss Galindo waiting still, remaining by his side the entire night.

That Harry could speak of it now, so many months later, and bring her to tears astonished him. Mr. Carter had seen Miss Galindo cry only once before, at her shop, when he had appeared to confront her about leaving Hanbury, and she'd reproached him for his lack of trust in her. Well, he wasn't having that; he had said in response –

Oh, was he that damnably obtuse?

On that occasion he'd made an oblique reference to the will, to the operation itself, and she had cried, cried there and then in her shop, while he stood helplessly by.

A torrent of confidences, then a torrent of tears, and he had understood nothing of it then, nothing! There had been such a troubled yet powerful intimacy between them on that day, and he'd thought her merely overwhelmed by her emotions, or perhaps wounded by his tactless words. Well, she'd been vulnerable, and he_ had_ said the wrong thing, but he hadn't understood how wrong.

* * *

_In this life everything that lives needs care, needs attention to thrive – an apple tree, a colt, a child. Perhaps even the plans, the unspoken wishes within the human heart._

_Morgan was right; best to start finding out to what purpose I live, and for whom._

_I must see her tomorrow. I must see her._

_

* * *

_

It was an ill omen, thought Lady Ludlow, that Mr. Carter should seek to address her on an urgent matter so early on a Monday morning. It could mean nothing other than bad news.

And it would not take her long to learn if that was so. For all that it was Mr. Carter's duty to please _her_, and thus to read her moods, she'd become quite adept at divining what was amiss with him – no simple task with such a reserved man.

This morning, to her surprise, he seemed in tolerably good spirits, if also as serious of mien as ever. She very much suspected he was turning over some plan within his mind, and it appeared it was not an unpleasant scheme, at that, if the sense of endearing, almost boyish enthusiasm was any indication.

"Mr. Carter."

"My lady." He bowed.

"This is a most unusual appointment, Mr. Carter. Can there be trouble already at Hanbury, so early on a Monday morning?"

"Oh, no, my lady, nothing is wrong. I merely needed to speak to you on a matter of some delicacy."

"Indeed?" Her eyebrows lifted. "Go on, Mr. Carter."

"My lady, I beg your leave to travel to Manchester tomorrow to deal with several matters concerning my personal accounts – at least one of them a project we have discussed before." He had not the heart to be explicit concerning the school, or for that matter his other affairs, but he thought it unfair to conceal his intentions.

Her expression betrayed no emotion. "Then you intend to proceed with your plan?"

"Yes, my lady."

"I have not altered my opinion, Mr. Carter, not completely, but I can assure you that if I cannot offer my sanction, I will at least present no obstacles."

"Thank you, my lady." He was unsure whether to dare the next sentence, then decided to proceed. "I beg you to the consider the possibility that you might allow me to assume the burden – "

Here at last was emotion. "Mr. Carter, I cannot find it in my heart to regard those young girls as a 'burden.'"

"Please, my lady. That is not what I meant. I meant they would be educated elsewhere, and someone else would assume the expense."

"Mr. Carter, I know what you meant, and my answer is the same. My charitable school will remain."

"As you wish, my lady." His brow furrowed and his mouth twisted as he contemplated another awkward subject. "And as to another matter, the expenses you incurred during my – "

"That too is a subject on which I refuse to admit discussion." Her voice was soft, and a shadow passed over her face. Then it gave way to a smile – a faint smile, perhaps, but a smile nonetheless. "I am sorry, Mr. Carter. It seems I would thwart you at every turn."

_Not at every turn, _he thought._ Not in all things. _For he hadn't told her the minute details of the business that he would be conducting in Manchester on the morrow, and in Cranford on this very day.

"Now, as to your journey, will you be departing at once?"

"Oh, no, I had rather thought tomorrow, if it is agreeable to your ladyship."

"Mr. Carter, I trust your discretion," she said with something very like warmth. "And I wish you Godspeed, whatever the course you are undertaking."

"Thank you, my lady."

* * *

_And so all must change. I cannot stop him, but then perhaps I would not stop him. His heart is set on this, and can it be wrong, when he is such a just man? _

_Perhaps it cannot, when he might have fallen into despair, or rather remained in despair. You have such a tremendous will, Mr. Carter. Perhaps that is what has saved you – that and your heart._

_And so now everything changes, and yet I do not feel dread. Curious._

_

* * *

_

She had spent much of the morning cutting, stitching, and trimming, and yet there remained so much work before her today. A parade of clients would be arriving shortly, beginning with Mrs. Robinson and her two young daughters – well-behaved girls, it was true, but fitting caps and bonnets for children always remained a challenge -- and there would no doubt be other tasks, and unexpected interruptions besides.

Still, Miss Galindo had set her heart on sharing tea with Mrs. Morgan by late afternoon. It was a ritual they'd both come to enjoy; it fairly restored one's spirits. Yes, she must take tea with her friend, no matter what the day held.

But now she knelt on the floor of the shop and examined the materials that had arrived that morning. At such moments she missed the luxury of an assistant, someone to run errands and store fabric and serve as a second pair of hands. But Anthony Beckett was long gone, and as good a man as he was, trouble had attended their entire association.

So today she once again found herself alone in her shop, alone at her work, and while she was yet on her knees, there came a soft but insistent tapping. As she looked up, the door opened, and Edward Carter walked into her shop for only the third time in their acquaintance.

The very sight of him stirred too many emotions – comfort at his dear, familiar presence; pleasure in the same; suspense as to why he had even come to see her.

And the disconcerting realization that she was before him on her very knees, and wearing this prim, prosaic white apron. Quite the little milliner, as he'd have no doubt reminded her.

It was an oddly humbling, remarkably intimate moment, and yet within her heart she felt a bold acceptance of her lot and how she made her living. There should be no illusions between them. She would feel no shame.

* * *

There she was before him, in that modest purple dress of hers, that little white apron, and she was on her knees – on her knees! He thought again of the confrontation they'd had less than a year ago. She hadn't wanted to be a milliner, she'd told him; she hadn't even wanted to be his clerk; and yet want of money had made her the former, and the influence and plans of Lady Ludlow had made her the latter.

_What do you want to be, Miss Galindo? _He'd not asked her. He'd never thought to ask her. But with no money, no home, no family, and only Lady Ludlow for an ally, Miss Galindo had accepted her fate. It pierced his very heart.

"Mr. Carter." She had been startled but evidently was not resentful of the intrusion – her smile was warm, genuine – and she made as if to rise to her feet. He stepped forward and put out one gloved hand to lift her up.

* * *

He stood over her in greatcoat and top boots, and for a moment the room, this decidedly feminine sanctuary, seemed filled with his presence, his very being.

And with that voice of his as well. "Miss Galindo – "

She loved the way her name rolled off his tongue. His voice fairly lilted when he said it. _Galindo._

_

* * *

_

"Miss Galindo, please excuse me for interrupting you, and without notice."

"Oh, no, Mr. Carter, you are most welcome," she said. _She_ was the one who was blushing, who was awkward, for all that _he'd_ entered an unaccustomed setting.

"Won't you sit down?" About the room were spindly, ridiculous chairs of the sort ladies used at fittings – hardly built to accommodate Mr. Carter, and yet he accepted the proffered chair and sat down opposite her.

"I had to see you today, Miss Galindo, before I set off on my journey," he said, pulling off his gloves.

"Your journey?" she said, unable to avoid a note of dismay in her voice.

"Oh, it is not far," he said, the expression in his eyes mild, reassuring. "Only to Manchester! I must see to a few matters, and not concerning Hanbury Court, either."

"Surely you refer to the school, Mr. Carter. You mean to go forward?"

"Yes, yes." _But not only with that._

"Then I surmise, Mr. Carter, that you have spoken to Lady Ludlow." Miss Galindo's eyes betrayed concern.

"I have. She countenances the plan, Miss Galindo; she does not sanction it. But what say you?" he added, softly.

"I am pleased for you, and yet I wonder if you may yet encounter disapproving souls quite apart from Lady Ludlow." She added, "I do not say that to discourage you."

"But what of your own opinion, Miss Galindo?"

"Surely it is not for me to say whether you should proceed now or no."

"On the contrary, I would prefer you to be frank."

"Upon my word, Mr. Carter, apart from Lady Ludlow, no woman wields such power in this community."

At that he smiled, and she couldn't decide if he was indulging her or keeping his temper in check. "Indeed I have tremendous regard for the women of Cranford, and credit them with their own style of power. But you have not answered my question, Miss Galindo."

"Very well. Do you intend this school for girls as well as for boys?"

"Of course," he said. Then he added playfully, "We have had this conversation before, Miss Galindo."

She smiled back at him. "I was not sure you remembered that, nor I was I certain I could hold you to your promise."

The expression in his eyes was all at once serious. "Let me assure you that it is quite within your power to hold me to a promise." And at that a potent silence fell between them, and he seemed to be turning something over in his mind. "Miss Galindo, I must – "

At that instant the door opened, and Mrs. Robinson, a smartly dressed matron with two young daughters, entered the shop. The little girls bobbed up and down – the younger one shy, fairly clinging to her mother's skirts, and the elder very much a little old woman, gravely inclining her head as she made her curtsy to Miss Galindo and the tall man wearing the greatcoat.

* * *

Poor Mr. Carter felt himself at once outnumbered, even thwarted, but nodded graciously to the lady and her children. Damn it, now he would have to extract himself, take his leave, and yet he'd had so much more to say.

He had risen to his feet, then turned to Miss Galindo with a smile, and she couldn't quite read the expression in those blue eyes – was he amused? Annoyed? No matter; he had been about to say something interesting, and _her_ responsibilities had interrupted him. If Miss Galindo had been given to oaths, she should have surely have uttered a silent one at that.

"Miss Galindo, I have stayed too long" – _No, I have barely begun, damn it, but there's nothing else I can say _– "and mustn't keep you from your clients. But perhaps tomorrow morning at Hanbury, before I take my leave, we might speak again – "

"Yes, yes, of course. I will be at my desk early –"

"That I may give you further guidance. Yes. Well, then we are agreed." He shook Miss Galindo's hand formally, and then turned to acknowledge the Robinsons. In an instant he had collected hat, gloves, and walking stick, and vanished from the shop, leaving it curiously empty, for all that it was filled with people.

* * *

It took all of Miss Galindo's will to smile at Mrs. Robinson and the little girls, to listen politely while they made their requests and spun their plans, to show them fabric and straw and pretty ribbons.

She paid little attention to any of it. In her heart she was traveling down a street in Cranford, following a tall man in a greatcoat, and if she wasn't careful, she'd make the journey all the way to Manchester.

* * *

No conversation with Miss Galindo ever went precisely as planned, and today was no exception.

And that was entirely his fault. It had been incautious of him to appear at her doorstep unannounced and assume she'd be free to listen, or to speak to him. But she'd received him so kindly, with such a smile, with warmth, that all the frustration he felt at departure was intensified. Everything within him was commanding him to turn around and enter the shop again, even if he must stop her in the midst of her work.

Still, there was tomorrow. He's see her again tomorrow, and this time they'd not be interrupted.

* * *

It was always a treat to take tea with Mrs. Morgan on a weekday afternoon, and by now it had also become a regular practice. After Mr. Carter's highly eventful visit to Miss Galindo's shop the previous autumn, the two women had sealed a friendship over refreshments and confidences, and had simply continued their tea table meetings, always with the knowledge that any secrets they uttered would never reach the ears of less discreet souls.

It was not lost on Mrs. Morgan that Miss Galindo's own vulnerability had given rise to their intimacy, and half out of a desire to confess, half out of empathy, she had provided an account of her own romantic misadventures of the previous year.

Miss Galindo had never possessed an appetite for gossip, of course, and had thus overlooked the confusion attending Dr. Harrison's first twelve months in town, including the misbegotten episode that that left no fewer than three ladies persuaded they'd secured his affections. That the matter concluded happily, with three weddings, and not the formal expulsion of Dr. Harrison from their midst, was remarkable in itself.

By now Mrs. Morgan could laugh, though not without a blush, at her own part in the business. That she could imagine young Dr. Harrison was wooing her, especially when it was plain that he had quite lost his heart to Miss Hutton! It was really too absurd.

Miss Galindo rather suspected Mrs. Morgan's pronounced if light-hearted self-reproach was meant to reassure her about all that had gone very wrong these past months. Why, if her poor, deluded self could emerge unscathed, so too could Miss Galindo.

And surely it was one of the great ironies of Cranford that two such quiet women, a Scottish widow and a spinster milliner, should have in the course of a single year drawn so much unwanted attention and outright humiliation. Yet Mrs. Morgan had emerged from her ordeal with dignity wounded but intact, and a husband at her side. Miss Galindo had neither such security nor such status, and did not care to think what some of the less charitable members of the community might yet be whispering about her.

Still, Miss Matty Jenkyns, Miss Smith, and Mrs. Gordon had been all kindness, and their opinions, particularly Miss Matty's, held some sway in the community. And Lady Ludlow and Mr. Carter had made their own quiet efforts on her behalf, and Miss Galindo was ever conscious of the debt she owed to them.

Mr. Carter. Today he had presented fresh reason to serve as a topic of discussion at their tea table, and yet Miss Galindo was mindful that he had not given her leave to reveal all concerning his plans. So she contented herself with the vaguest description of his visit to the shop, a mention that he had sought her opinion on one or two matters.

Mrs. Morgan looked decidedly thoughtful at the news. "But he is not wont to visit you at your place of business, Miss Galindo," she said. "He must have had a particular reason for coming to see you this morning."

"Truth to tell, Mrs. Morgan, I do not believe he had addressed all his concerns by the time he took his leave. We were interrupted, you see, in the course of our tête-à-tête."

"But surely he left some indication – "

"None that I can see, Mrs. Morgan. Still, perhaps he will address it on the morrow, at Hanbury. I always go there on Tuesdays, you know, and he will no doubt speak then."

"Perhaps." Mrs. Morgan took a sip of tea. "Well, he has sought your opinion, and that provides some indication of his regard."

"Regard? Oh, surely not, Mrs. Morgan."

Mrs. Morgan smiled. "Have you ever known a man to do anything other than exactly what he wished?"

"Yes, often, if he was under someone else's command." And Miss Galindo thought of servants and soldiers and shop assistants, and of Mr. Carter at the beck and call of Lady Ludlow.

"And who ordered Mr. Carter to see you? Surely not Lady Ludlow, and Her Majesty is not at home here in Cranford."

"No. All has changed now that we have lost Miss Jenkyns – "

"You tease, Miss Galindo, but I am in earnest. I cannot divine Mr. Carter's intentions, but surely he came to see you for a reason."

* * *

Tuesday morning. Miss Galindo had pens at the ready, ink at the ready, a ledger awaiting additions, correspondence to be addressed.

She was at her desk, and there was no Mr. Carter to be seen.

Well, she must not remain idle. First she would see to the fire and then --

From the hallway there was sound of a walking stick tapping the floor, and of footsteps, a man's footsteps. It was not Lady Ludlow but Mr. Carter approaching.

Miss Galindo looked up from the fire and saw him enter the room. He was dressed for the journey, and she could almost feel his impatience, his agitation.

But he smiled at her, smiled at her in the firelight, in the February sunshine streaming into the room. "Miss Galindo, I am glad you are so prompt." He stepped over to where she was standing beside the grate. "I so wanted to speak to you before I went to Manchester."

"And I am glad to oblige you, Mr. Carter, when you have such important tasks before you today."

"Tasks? Yes, yes, but I was thinking of an unrelated concern." His brow furrowed, his eyes darkened, and for a moment he seemed unsure how to proceed. "Miss Galindo, this may be difficult to -- well, I must tell you that I know about the conversation you had with Harry the other day."

She felt as though her heart were about to stop. "The other day?"

"What you said to him after meeting Dr. Marshland. Harry was -- "

"Oh, Mr. Carter," she murmured. "I am sorry. I should not have subjected Harry to that, and I had no wish to cause you pain – "

She stopped, and said, shamefacedly, "I expressed that very badly indeed, Mr. Carter. I am so truly sorry."

To her surprise, he did not seem angry or reproachful. "Miss Galindo, I doubt you could have stopped Harry from speaking, not when he has all these questions, and not when Dr. Marshland was there to begin to provide some answers." He curled his hand around hers. "But Harry was very distressed, and he told me he'd -- "

"Oh, Mr. Carter, I had no intention of wounding Harry," she said softly. "I am indeed sorry." There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes, for all that she was keeping her composure.

"Harry? No, no, he was concerned -- "

"He has such regard for you, Mr. Carter; surely you know that."

"No, no, of course I know what a kind heart the boy has." He'd taken her hand in both of his and was stroking it gently. "And he was very -- "

Footsteps, softer and lighter this time. The tapping of Lady Ludlow's walking stick.

Miss Galindo and Mr. Carter, as if by agreement, broke apart, indeed increased the distance between them by a judicious few steps, and turned to face her ladyship as she entered the room.

_The smiles seem especially forced this morning_, she thought._ Whatever can they have been talking of? And are those tears in Laurentia's eyes?_

_

* * *

_

Truly a conversation with Miss Galindo never went as planned.

Anyone watching Mr. Carter as he made his way through the streets of Cranford would have stepped carefully aside to avoid him, given the expression on his face. _Damn it._ He had spent two days attempting a proper meeting with Miss Galindo, and never succeeded, not wholly. And now he would be in Manchester for nearly two days, and unable to reveal all that he was about.

Well, then. If he could not see her properly before he made his journey, there were other means at his disposal. And he set on a course for the High Street.

* * *

Tomorrow she'd be in the shop again, not at Hanbury Court, and yet she'd have to rise early. Still, sleep was eluding her tonight, and her thoughts were filled with Mr. Carter and the several aborted conversations they'd had. Everything always began so interestingly, and then was broken off without resolution.

It was endlessly vexing.

And now he had gone to Manchester, and further discussion would have to wait. Why, it didn't matter if he was in the next room, a dozen miles away, or on the other side of the ocean; they were parted, and so she couldn't say a proper word to him, or he to her.

His efforts to engage her in conversation had been most intriguing; even Mrs. Morgan had said so. Then again, for all that she possessed superior knowledge of the male sex, Mrs. Morgan was occasionally wrong at divining intentions. Look at what had happened with Dr. Harrison!

Still, Miss Galindo had to wonder what Mrs. Morgan would have made of Edward Carter if she'd seen the look in his eyes as he'd walked in the door of the shop on Monday morning.

The memory of that expression was the last image in her mind as Miss Galindo finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	20. The Unresisting Heart

**Special Note to Readers: Thanks to the good offices of the writer ChocolateIsMyDrug, I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the scene changes in my stories are not showing up. So bear with me while I go through the work of the past months and years to clean up and insert the necessary breaks. **

**

* * *

**

The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow** for the small screen.

St. Valentine's Day in Cranford -- at last. Many thanks to my patient, faithful, and responsive readers.

* * *

**Chapter 20: The Unresisting Heart**

"St. Valentine's Day, Miss Pole! Such a delight! They say the birds choose their mates on this day, and surely many a human heart will find its partner as well."

"Or be broken, Mrs. Forrester, for we know how wicked man can be."

"Oh, Miss Pole, you do entertain such dark thoughts, and on a very pleasant day too." Mrs. Forrester studied the bouquets in Mrs. Rhys's front window with a wistful eye. "Posies, poetry, sweets, secret admirers. It quite takes one's breath away," said she, sighing.

"Do you not think, Mrs. Forrester, that most such gestures are trifling?" said Miss Pole, inspecting a bunch of hothouse rosebuds.

"Oh, surely not, Miss Pole, not if a man reveals his true intent. There's many a humble offering that surely leads to a good deal more. A bouquet, a message, the gentle pressing of a lady's hand, and thereafter such bliss as is known to –"

"Mrs. Forrester, pray compose yourself."

"Ah, Miss Pole, such things must be. Else we'd not be here to discuss them, if you understand my meaning."

"Here we are indeed, Mrs. Forrester -- you a widow of many years, and I a spinster of a lifetime, and not a suitor between us. That is another hard truth, Mrs. Forrester, which you must acknowledge."

"I do not think a lady ought to abandon hope. After all, Miss Pole, we do not know what the morrow holds!" said Mrs. Forrester with just a touch of mischief in her eye.

Miss Pole snorted. She'd not much faith in Providence these days, especially in regard to the supply of gentlemen in Cranford. "Well, I have seen quite enough of the posies for one day. Shall we go to inquire whether the new fabrics have arrived at Johnson's?"

* * *

Miss Galindo woke with a fierce headache. She'd had that dream again, or a variation on it. Jem Hearne was bringing Mr. Carter in a coffin to the village church, only this time Jem had to come all the way from Manchester. Miss Galindo approached the churchyard and was turned away by Captain Brown, who said kindly, "My dear, women do not attend funerals in Cranford. Surely you know that, with your vast experience." Whereupon Deborah Jenkyns suddenly appeared and scolded him fiercely. "I am sure, Captain, I never read such nonsense in Dr. Johnson."

Miss Galindo was given neither to superstition nor frequent nightmares, and yet this recurring dream always possessed the power to unsettle her. Deborah Jenkyns had been a rather amusing addition this time, though, and Miss Galindo almost laughed to think of her particular contribution, despite the sobering thought that of all the figures in the dream, Miss Jenkyns herself was the one who had indeed died.

But the dream itself remained an odd and troubling narrative, a sign, Miss Galindo thought, that she'd not abandoned lingering fears for Mr. Carter's safety -- past, present, real or imagined. Since the previous spring she would, on occasion, wake in the morning and no longer be certain whether Mr. Carter had departed this life or no.

Today she admonished herself not to be foolish. Mr. Carter was but on a journey to Manchester, and would be home by tonight.

And if she'd needed proof enough that Mr. Carter remained among them, she'd had it in abundance the previous day, when she had stood very close to him in the firelight, and he was caressing her hand with both of his, and speaking to her in such gentle tones. Oh, he was alive, very much alive, and so was she.

And there was no need to trouble Jem Hearne with any of it.

* * *

Oh, how his head ached this morning. It was no good, this being away from home, not when he'd come away so quickly and before he'd accomplished all he'd meant to. But it was always so with a journey – rushed preparations and then departure.

And besides, he must remind himself that he was laying the groundwork for peace of mind when next he was home – and that was not long now. He would explain everything, and perhaps feel contentment at having at last made amends for the way he'd made his fortune.

But truth to tell, that wasn't all that occupied his mind this morning. He was thinking very much of the look he'd see on her face when he'd revealed the rest of his plans, when she finally understood.

* * *

That the morning had passed so pleasantly gave Miss Galindo vast contentment. It was a Wednesday, more often than not one of the busiest days of the week, and everything had gone uncommonly well -- not a discontented client or a misplaced spool of ribbon to be spoken of.

She was expecting no deliveries today and so was rather startled when the little parcel -- a parcel too small to contain goods for the shop -- was delivered at midday.

And it was then that the day took the most astonishing turn of all, for she discovered within a bouquet of the most exquisite violets -- and not so much as a hint as to the identity of the sender.

Had someone been observing Miss Galindo unawares, he or she would have laughed to see her very nearly turning the gift box upside down to determine whether a card was hidden there. But there was no card; the gift was quite anonymous, and it was, she suddenly remembered, St. Valentine's Day.

No one had ever made her a present of flowers on St. Valentine's Day. She touched the tender, richly colored petals. So beautiful, so delicate. If she had taken out her paints, crayons, and pencils then and there and tried to replicate them, she should not have succeeded.

And had she taken pen and ink and attempted to express how she felt at this moment -- well, in that task she surely ought to have failed as well.

She could think of only two people who had recently given her presents: Mr. Carter and Captain Brown. But Mr. Carter surely had no use for ruses, games, and anonymity; if he had sent her a gift, he would have at the very least included a modest card. _With the compliments of Edward Carter_. That was his way.

And as for Captain Brown, he too was a frank sort of fellow, and would have made his intentions plain. And yet there had been one or two occasions on which she had cause to wonder whether he was expressing subtle interest. But surely his invitation to the party, the book he'd sent, the offer of an escort home were all innocent gestures, indications of friendship and neighborliness, but not of a preference for her company. No, it was not Captain Brown who had sent the flowers.

Anthony Beckett? It was not impossible that he should make a gesture of gratitude or apology, though she saw no need for either. Besides, he'd know better than to do such a thing at St. Valentine's Day, especially after all the gossip of the previous year.

Harry? Miss Galindo smiled at the very notion. Harry was too young and too poor to send presents, though not, as it happened, too young to defer paying compliments to ladies! God help Mr. Carter, who would have his hands full schooling the boy in the ways of an honest gentleman.

Well, then. Could the flowers have been a mistake, a misdirected delivery, or even a prank? She thought of Dr. Marshland at Mrs. Rhys's shop, and of the account Mrs. Morgan had provided of his mischief at the previous St. Valentine's Day. Indeed, Miss Galindo suspected the ladies of Cranford would be recounting the tale of Dr. Marshland's anonymous Valentine cards for a decade to come.

But much had changed since then, and anyone with eyes would have marked well Dr. Marshland's preference for a particular young woman. Miss Galindo smiled to herself. At the very least, he would not risk getting into any scrapes this St. Valentine's Day, not when the game he was playing was a good deal more serious than whist or forfeits.

She sat down in one of the chairs in her shop and held the violets in her lap. There was always a meaning to flowers, it was said, whether they were depicted in a painting or sent to a lady's care. She could not remember the symbolism of the violet, not at the moment, but touching the flowers, holding them in her hands, gave such delicate pleasure -- very like a caress.

* * *

Miss Galindo had not yet had time to place her flowers in a vase when the door to the shop opened and Miss Matty, Mrs. Gordon, and Miss Smith stepped inside. They were all smiles and bobbed curtsies.

"You must forgive me, Miss Galindo. I have left my account unpaid too long," began Miss Matty. "But that is not the only reason for our visit today."

"No, Miss Matty? And what else might I do for you?"

"Nothing else for me, thank you, Miss Galindo," said Miss Matty. "It's Mrs. Gordon who is our primary concern."

Jessie smiled. "I am at last going to purchase a new bonnet, and could think of no one else whose taste and skill I might better rely upon than your good self."

"And I am here only to provide company for Miss Matty and Mrs. Gordon while they accomplish their errands," added Miss Smith. "I trust I will not be in the way."

"Never, Miss Smith, and I find that ladies always make wiser decisions for having consulted a friend before purchasing a new bonnet or gown," said Miss Galindo with a sly smile. "Where shall we begin?"

"Oh, with Mrs. Gordon, please," said Miss Matty. "Hers is the most complex request, and she has waited so long for this day."

As Jessie settled into the chair in front of the mirror, her eye fell upon Miss Galindo's gift.

"Oh! What charming flowers. Did they just arrive?"

"Yes, Mrs. Gordon, almost this moment," said Miss Galindo, bringing forward an assortment of designs to show Jessie.

"And they are violets. How very lovely!" exclaimed Miss Matty.

"Violets on _St. Valentine's Day_," added Miss Smith, approvingly.

"I own I do not know the meaning of the violet. We shall have to consult **The Language of Flowers **when we return home," said Miss Matty.

"Indeed you must," said Mrs. Gordon happily, remembering her own courtship, and the flowers the major had sent her. Anemones. _Love ever steadfast._

"Though we do not know, of course, whether the gentleman is even aware of the symbolism of flowers!" added Mary Smith. "But the very act of sending them was, in itself, a message."

"Do you mean a declaration of feelings, Miss Smith, or of intent?" asked Miss Galindo, suddenly forgetting bonnets and fashion and all else.

"Both, most likely," said Mary warmly.

"I confess I know neither his intent nor his name. The flowers arrived without a card," said Miss Galindo, with an effort.

"An anonymous present! How intriguing," sighed Miss Matty. "Well, now you must certainly learn the symbolism of the violet!"

"Oh, I think Miss Galindo need not trouble herself with that," said Mary.

Miss Galindo looked a bit anxious, for all that she still managed a smile. "And why do you say that, Miss Smith?"

"Make no mistake about it, Miss Galindo," said Mary. "You have an admirer, and surely he is a very good man."

* * *

"Is it true what they say, do you think?" said Miss Matty after she and Mary had said goodbye to Mrs. Gordon at her doorstep. "That Miss Galindo has a – "

She had been about to say "lover" but, almost feeling the weight of Deborah's disapproval, could not utter the word.

"That Miss Galindo has -- ?" prompted Mary delicately.

"Why, that a gentleman has been paying his attentions to Miss Galindo," finished Miss Matty primly.

"Oh, Miss Matty, I do not give credence to the gossip, especially when we know so much of Miss Galindo's demeanor and character," said Mary. "I very much suspect the tales are more the product of fertile imaginations than of events."

And yet Mary thought again of what she and Jack had noted well at the Twelfth Night party: the unspoken intimacy between Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo – decorous, perfectly proper, but still plain to her eyes, and to Jack's. Indeed, Jack had, if anything, been more persuaded of an attachment than had she, and had made impertinent jokes about the mistletoe decorating the halls at Hanbury and what use Mr. Carter might make of it.

Remembering all that, Mary now said, "But I do think it is entirely possible that a gentleman would choose this day to reveal his intentions to Miss Galindo, or perhaps send her some symbol of his regard, and surely only the most respectable sort of man would attempt that. Indeed, I think we should view that as a most agreeable prospect. Would you not then be pleased for Miss Galindo? That is, do you not believe she deserves to win the heart of a good man?"

"Of course I do, and I would wish as much for any lady who had secured my esteem," said Miss Matty, with a meaningful look at her young companion.

Mary's smile betrayed nothing. "But not all worthy women make a good match." And Miss Matty could not divine whether that pronouncement was meant to refer to her plight or Mary's own.

* * *

Martha met them at the door with an endearing -- and these days quite uncharacteristic -- smile. "Oh, Miss Smith, there's a gift box come for you!" Martha couldn't have been more excited if it had been her own present.

Miss Matty said nothing, though her interest was, if anything, more pronounced than Martha's._ Symbols of regard indeed! And it is St. Valentine's Day._

Both women watched as Mary opened her gift, though it was Miss Matty who broke the silence. "What a lovely bouquet of tulips! Such colors!"

"Oh, they're beautiful, Miss Smith!"

Mary was studying the the card that had been enclosed with her flowers. _With the compliments of Dr. John Marshland _-- an assortment of painfully correct words that were as far as she could imagine from the blotchy, merry, decidedly irreverent letters he regularly sent her way.

Miss Matty's soft voice broke through her thoughts. "Mary, dear, I'd imagine there is no need for you to tell either Martha or myself who sent the flowers."

Mary looked up. "No, there is not, Miss Matty, for you both have surely guessed that it was Dr. Marshland."

"Oh, Miss Smith, he must think the world of you." said Martha. She could not understand why Mary showed no sign of delight. Truly she was cold-hearted girl if she couldn't see the worth of that Dr. Marshland. He was a clever one, and handsome too, and made them all laugh with his stories and jokes.

_I'll wager she's not so much as given him a kiss, let alone more_, thought Martha. It wouldn't do to try a fellow's patience so, not when men remained such a dear commodity in Cranford.

* * *

They'd been at sixes and sevens all day, thought Mrs. Rhys -- most unusual for Cranford, for all that it _was_ St. Valentine's Day. She didn't know what they would do once the railroad was completed, for then there would be people coming and going at all hours of the day -- wonderful for her custom, exhausting for herself and her son. They'd require an assistant, they would, if things became so busy.

And they'd barely managed today. Why, they'd --

Oh, dear. There was something lying on the floor of the shop -- a letter, perhaps, or a Valentine, or even a card to accompany one of their dear little nosegays.

"What's this, Hugh?" said Mrs. Rhys, waving the envelope before her 17-year-old son's eyes. She paused to read the direction. "'Miss Laurentia Galindo' – Hugh, has this lain here on the floor the entire day?" She was mortified. Clearly the confusion had been a good deal worse than she'd thought.

"Do you want me to take it over tomorrow, Mama?" said Hugh.

"Tomorrow?! What sort of a shop do you think this is? We're going this very evening."

"_We_?"

"Yes. Get your coat. But first wash those hands!"

* * *

The Band of Bachelors, Ferguson called them, these three physicians who met together that evening to share a drink and some conversation -- McDevitt, Ferguson, and Marshland, friends since their days at Guy's, all reunited in Manchester tonight, with not so much as a wife among them, and as McDevitt observed, a man must put his freedom to good use.

Ferguson, passing through on his way back to Edinburgh, had brought the spirits this time. It was evident from the start, though, that the bottle contained precisely the wrong prescription for young Marshland, who was not himself tonight and was indeed no better for taking anything stronger than port. Melancholy never suited Jack, and the drink only made it worse.

And the talk, thought Ferguson, had been of no help either.

"What can you tell us of your young lady, Jack? That lass in the village?" Ferguson said.

"The one with the _eyes_," McDevitt added, using his fingers to form an imaginary pair of spectacles.

"She's not my young lady," Marshland said in uncharacteristically clipped tones.

"She's a canny one, then, if she'll have none of you," said Ferguson, and he shared a guffaw with McDevitt.

"Not your young lady? I'm sorry to hear that," said McDevitt, "especially after the path your poor horse has worn between here and her doorstep." He emptied his glass. "Not your young lady?" he said. "Jack, what part of that phrase is untrue? Could it be she's not a lady?"

"Or she's no young?" Ferguson put in helpfully.

"Or perhaps – now perhaps, mind you – she's not _yours _at all, Jack." And McDevitt gave a hoarse chuckle as he reached for the bottle again.

Jack got to his feet suddenly, knocking his chair backwards.

Ferguson didn't much care for the look on Marshland's face. "Now, Jack," he said softly. "You've had enough. Sit down again." He turned to McDevitt and mouthed _no more_, and McDevitt couldn't decide if he meant the drink or the talk.

But Jack wouldn't sit down, and he seemed steady enough on his feet. "You are right. I've had enough," he said evenly. "And I'd best be going."

McDevitt couldn't leave it alone. He tugged at Marshland's sleeve. "Jack, you know I was just – "

"Oh, you were _just_, Dr. McDevitt, in your assessment," said Marshland quietly. "And most accurate."

That didn't sound like Jack, and Ferguson was really starting to worry. "Jack, you must -- "

"Spare me your prescriptions, Ferguson," said Marshland quietly. At last he smiled to himself, if a bit sadly. "And perhaps I'll not be needing a cure."

"Jack, sit down," said McDevitt. "We can -- "

"I'd best be going," said Jack again, as though no one had said anything. "Good night, and joy be with you all. I'll not sing it this time," he added, and he was out of the room before they could make another attempt at changing his mind.

* * *

He'd gotten all of it wrong, every step of the way, from his words to Mary on Saturday to the formal way he'd sent her flowers. They understood each other, or so he'd thought, and their every conversation, every letter had been marked with warmth and with spirit, never cold, bloodless formality. As of last Saturday, though, they'd both said all the wrong things to each other, and he'd been sent packing without so much as a touch or a kiss. Truly that hurt the most, though he didn't like to own it. Then again, Miss Matty _had_ walked in on them, and it wasn't as though Mary could have done more than shake his hand. But she might have at least smiled.

Mary was a sharp girl, though. She'd understand him, see what he'd really intended, once he had a chance to explain.

And he wasn't going to leave it to letters this time, or some silly posy from the village shop. He'd have to see her.

It was a bit late to be starting out, but there was time enough, and hadn't he made the journey so many times now that he could have done it in his sleep? Even his horse, as McDevitt had observed, had worn a path to Cranford. He'd go to Mary tonight, make her see reason, and return to Manchester in the morning.

By the time he was on his way the thought occurred to him he'd not brought money enough to stay at the George. But he couldn't turn back now, and besides, Frank and Sophy would surely welcome him in if he knocked on their door. Sophy was too soft-hearted to do otherwise, and as for Frank, well, Jack always had the option to use blackmail, given their shared history at Guy's. No, the Harrisons would not turn him away.

But first he must call upon Mary. He'd make arrangements as to the rest later.

He knew Mary often sat reading with Miss Matty and Mr. Jenkyns of an evening, and he could easily envision the scene – coziness and quiet and candlelight, with Mary in her spectacles, her face a delight of soft curves and shadows and bright, lovely eyes. He imagined her looking up from her book as he came in the room and smiling this time, smiling to welcome him back.

The door opened to reveal Jem Hearne, wearing breeches pulled hastily on with his nightshirt. He held a poker in his right hand, and Martha, right behind him, was clutching his shoulder with one hand and the coal shovel with other – as though that wooden implement Captain Brown had made might prove a reliable weapon!

"Dr. Marshland! Did somebody call you? I hadn't thought there was illness in the household tonight." And he looked round to Martha as though she somehow might have the answer.

Peter Jenkyns came down the stairs, having hastily pulled on shirt and trousers. "I heard knocking," he said, and fell silent when he saw Jack standing in the doorway.

Within another moment Mary Smith appeared at the top of the stairs. She stood with her hair hanging loose and a shawl wrapped about her shoulders – a feeble attempt at modesty, given that she was clad in her nightdress. A single glance and Jack had the makings of a month's worth of dreams.

Peter Jenkyns cleared his throat. "Dr. Marshland, perhaps you do not realize that the clock has already gone eleven."

Oh, sweet Jesus, what had he done? They'd think him a madman for coming round at this hour. His head was starting to ache. Damn Ferguson for bringing that bottle tonight. Damn McDevitt for –

Miss Matty emerged from her bedroom, clutching a wrapper about herself. "Whatever is wrong?" She looked down the stairs and took in the scene – Martha, Jem, her brother, and an uncharacteristically sheepish Dr. Marshland.

Jack attempted a bow, though it made him dizzy. "I beg your pardon, Miss Matty. I found myself in Cranford most unexpectedly this evening, and thought to call upon Miss Smith."

"It is indeed most unexpected, Dr. Marshland. Evidently we keep different hours in Cranford than one does in Manchester."

"I am truly sorry, Miss Matty. I mean to go to Dr. Harrison's --"

"Oh, indeed you shall not. Dr. and Mrs. Harrison will have already retired for the evening." She turned to her brother. "Peter, surely we can provide some accommodation for Dr. Marshland."

"My thought exactly, Matilda."

Matty's head whipped round. "And Mary, you really ought to return to your room."

"I thought perhaps we had an intruder, Miss Matty," said Mary. She turned her attention downstairs. "Jem, I think that we ought to procure you a pistol for next time. A poker is a most inadequate means of defense."

"Mary!" said Matty, shocked. She turned to the others and said, "We have all become unnecessarily agitated, but it is far too late for conversation. I propose that everyone retire until the morrow."

Peter Jenkyns clamped a hand on Dr. Marshland's shoulder – _very like a constable,_ thought Jem – and said, "Right. I'll show you where you'll spend the night." And with that everyone dispersed – Matty to her little room, Mary to hers, and Jem and Martha to their quarters on the other side of the house.

As for Jack Marshland, he didn't much care where or whether he slept that night. He didn't care if he ever slept again, not when he was this miserable.

* * *

The clock had gone eleven -- long past time to retire. She'd put on her nightdress and braided her hair, and yet left the candle burning again on the nightstand while she sat awake. She must unfold and read the note again, to persuade herself that she had received it, that she even understood it.

_Tuesday, February 13th_

_My dear Miss Galindo,_

_I write this in haste, and with borrowed time and even borrowed pen! And yet do not take offense that I allow, as you might say, the written word to suffice, when we might have spent a few more precious moments in private conversation. Indeed I hope this letter might lay the groundwork for another such talk, this time lengthier and uninterrupted, when I return home._

_This morning I mentioned to you that Harry had confided to me the content of your exchange on Saturday. Pray do not distress yourself, Miss Galindo; I bring up the matter not out of a desire to reproach but to offer comfort. Harry was pierced to the heart when he realized he'd made you weep, and I too was grieved. You have shed tears enough, I assure you, and I write that not only on Harry's behalf but on my own._

_To hear that you had wept was to stumble upon a great secret, or so it seemed. You see, Miss Galindo, you are not alone in occasionally discovering things thought to be well-concealed! But as you have observed, my secrets are safe enough in your keeping, and in return I give you my word that you may trust me with your own. Indeed I would be honored if you would consent to rely upon me, to confide in me._

_Does that seem too much to expect, given the course of our acquaintance? Indeed I hope not, for you have been so many things to me. You called yourself a clerk, I called you a milliner -- as though that were a bad thing; you really ought to have been more severe with me -- but there is so much more that you are: a confidante, a friend, a teacher, an artist, and even the lady to whom Harry Gregson sometimes pays compliments (We really must take greater care with that boy's education). _

_And yet all of that is inadequate to convey what you are to me. Do you understand my meaning? Would allow me more time in your company, that you may divulge your own thoughts in the wake of this message? I very much hope your answer will be yes, and that you will accept, with a smile and never a tear, this letter, and the symbol of my regard that accompanies it._

_Very sincerely yours,_

_Edward Carter_

Tonight any misunderstandings, frustrations, awkwardness did not seem to matter. She felt a strange generosity, a willingness to embrace the whole of her acquaintance as confederates in this blossoming friendship with Mr. Carter. God bless dear, stubborn Lady Ludlow for my-dearing her all the way into his office that time. "I have brought you a helpmeet." Quite! And God bless Harry for serving as the bridge between them, and simply for being Harry. For that matter, bless Dr. Marshland for appearing out of nowhere to provoke all these recent conversations. Yes, God bless Dr. Marshland, wherever he was tonight.

Had Mr. Carter arrived home yet? Yes, surely he was home, surely he was asleep at this moment, while she sat up re-reading his words. Perhaps she'd dream of him again, only a happier dream now -- that is, assuming she even slept tonight!

And truth to tell, she wasn't much concerned when or if she slept this night. She didn't much care if she ever slept again, not when she was this happy.

* * *

Traveling was always a lonely business – passing all those cozy houses filled with light and with families. He hated the feeling that as long as he was on a journey, there was nowhere he truly belonged. He was always a guest, a stranger.

He had arrived home again now, though, arrived at the place he loved, even if there was no one to greet him. But of course it was late -- the clock had gone eleven, and decent folk were abed. He should take his rest as well, if only he could stop thinking long enough to close his eyes.

And if he closed his eyes, he would envision her standing before him as she had done that first time he'd brought her flowers. At one moment there'd been a mischievous look in her eyes as she tactfully got him to hand the blooms over to her, employing the excuse that their moist stems would stain his shirt cuffs. But when he'd extended his hand and given her the bouquet, she'd seemed at once very shy, standing there with lips parted and eyes fixed on the flowers, not on his face.

Had she worn the same expression when his little gift arrived today? He'd never know, but he would see her as soon as possible and, he hoped, have the leisure to study her expressions then.

But surely she was lying asleep at this hour, and when he closed his eyes he dared to envision that scene as well -- Laurentia Galindo, blissfully given over to dreams. He imagined her pale face in repose, her hair tumbling over the pillow.

Would the violets be in a vase in her shop, or or perhaps in her sitting room? Or were they standing watch there in her bedroom while she slept, while she dreamed?

* * *

_To be continued..._


	21. Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen

Classical music lovers will recognize the source of the title. For everyone else, see the duet between Pamina and Papageno in the first act of **The Magic Flute.**

Thanks to everyone reading this, and special thanks to those who take the time to review. You do it with such warmth and, more often than not, a decidedly sprightly turn of phrase!

* * *

**Chapter 21:** **Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen**

Chance had played tricks on them before. This time she wasn't leaving anything to chance.

She woke early in the morning, woke from a light sleep, and realized that whatever the day held, she must write a reply to Mr. Carter and deliver it into his hands. They might meet that day at Hanbury, or they might not, but he would at last know something of what was in her heart.

_My dear Mr. Carter,_

_First I must offer my sincere thanks for your kind and most beautiful gift of Wednesday. Indeed I confess myself quite astonished by its arrival – but also delighted, Mr. Carter, utterly delighted. _

_I must emphasize that joy, Mr. Carter, that you be in no doubt of it, for there was another, equally unexpected delivery on Wednesday, namely the letter you had intended to accompany the flowers. Yes, I must tell you that it was separated from them, though I know not how, and the bouquet arrived in the morning, your message in the evening. But all was put right by the good offices of Mrs. Rhys and her son, who were greatly troubled that such a mishap had occurred, and apologized profusely after delivering the letter by their own hands. Pray do not be cross with them, for I believe that yesterday their custom was such as to challenge the steadiest hand and the clearest mind. But all was put right, Mr. Carter; that I can assure you. _

_I read your letter at once, and then permitted myself the leisure of reading it again, and yet again, that I might do justice to the frankness, the eloquence of your words._

_Oh, Mr. Carter, you speak of my tears, and yet you are the one who has suffered so much. I thank God in His mercy for leaving you among us, for if the memory of your ordeal moves Harry and me to weep, the thought of a greater sorrow is more than our hearts should be able to bear._

_But I know -- and certainly Harry does, for all that he is young -- that you live with your eyes fixed on higher purposes, and surely your journey to Manchester reflects that. I do hope your efforts prospered, and that you may see all your plans come to fruition. You shall, perhaps, have a good deal of news to impart, now that you are home once more._

_And may I confess that I too was troubled that our conversations on Monday and Tuesday ended so abruptly -- yes, for all that such interruptions were entirely necessary due to my duties, and of course our shared obligations to Lady Ludlow. You say that we must resume our talk, and I too hope that we shall, as soon as your responsibilities allow you the leisure of doing so._

_As for the other requests you made, I must tell you, Mr. Carter, that no one who knows you can be in any doubt whatsoever of the kindness of your heart, or of your loyalty and discretion, or of the ideals you seek to put into practice. Truly anyone whom you choose to call your friend must be conscious of the honor, and endeavor most wholeheartedly to deserve it. I confide to you that the former I have already accomplished, and the latter is a task I hope to fulfill. Time will reveal whether I succeed at my effort._

_I can see those delicately beautiful violets as I write this letter. They were a most welcome sight this morning, and you deserved an equally friendly greeting upon your return from Manchester. Perhaps, though, you arrived after dusk, when no one is about, and this letter must suffice as a welcome. But be assured, Mr. Carter, that its message is no less than heartfelt, as is my wish to see you._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_Laurentia Galindo_

_

* * *

_

Jack had expected the truly wretched headache that awaited him the next morning, a bit of discomfort that would surely put the final blow to the disgrace that followed his precipitate arrival in the Jenkyns household.

What he had not foreseen was that, far from compounding his humiliation by intentional coolness, nearly everyone would be intent on hospitality. Peter Jenkyns was brisk but not unkind, and saw to it Jack was in a fit state to face the world that morning, and even went so far as to offer a clean shirt.

Words failed Jem when he saw Dr. Marshland appear at the breakfast table – after all, what could he say to a man who rode so far, and in such a state, to see a girl on a Wednesday night? – but he too was sympathetic, offering a friendly nod.

As for Martha, far from being contemptuous of their guest, she actually seemed to have taken his side and was most attentive to him at table. And so, despite the presence of that ferocious headache and a decided lack of appetite, Jack forced himself to eat, if only to avoid wounding Martha's feelings.

Miss Matty and Miss Smith were in a subdued state, though polite enough, and when everyone had finished breakfast, and Jem had gone off to work -- but not before bidding farewell to Dr. Marshland with a handshake and a sad smile -- both women excused themselves to accompany Mr. Jenkyns to the sitting room, where he shut the door behind them. Evidently a lively discussion ensued, though Jack and Martha could hear none of it, and at length the Jenkynses and Miss Smith reemerged, with expressions that betrayed nothing.

Jack rose to his feet as Miss Matty approached the table.

"Dr. Marshland," she said, "I understand that time is short, and surely you have duties that await you at the infirmary. But I must beg a private word with you, if you are agreeable."

Agreeable! For all that Miss Matty was nothing if not unassuming -- and evidently she liked Jack; he'd always sensed she did -- he felt a most unaccustomed sense of fear at the thought of hearing what she had to say. It didn't help matters much that she had apparently stood up to her brother to bring about this interview. He'd be a fool to underestimate her; that much was clear.

But Jack craved her good opinion, and his heart must not fail him now.

"Of course, Miss Matty," he said, nodding humbly. He followed her to the sitting room, where she closed the door behind them.

"Dr. Marshland, I believe you are an intelligent, most respectable young man. But I would be speaking an untruth if I said last night's events did not shock me. I trust you understand that they must not be repeated."

"Miss Matilda, they never will. I am truly sorry, and I meant no offense, neither to you nor your brother nor Miss Smith."

"I see that, Dr. Marshland." She paused for a moment. "We shall not speak of it again."

But he knew she wasn't finished with him yet, not by any means, and he could well guess what was coming next.

"Now as to another matter, Dr. Marshland, I must tell you that Mary is very dear to me –"

"As she is to me, Miss Matty. I'd never do anything to –"

"Pray let me finish."

"Forgive me, Miss Matty." _No more of that now, Jack. Shut your gob for once._

"Dr. Marshland, I have known Mary all her life. She is the very soul of good sense. And yet she was quite young when her mother died, and I do not think she has ever truly recovered from that loss. If you had known her mother, you might understand why, but perhaps it is enough to say that Mary is very like her.

"I am not Mary's mother, only her friend, and as I said, she is nothing if not a wise young woman. But she is also a guest in my home, and my brother and I would never permit anything or anyone to wound her or compromise her in any fashion. I need not say more."

"No, Miss Matty. I am so very sorry."

"Yes, I see that. Now, if I may speak frankly, I shall tell you that Peter and I give our consent to allow you to speak to Mary privately, or rather we acknowledge that Mary is free to choose to receive you."

_Choose._ His heart almost stopped.

"And she has given me her assurances that she will."

* * *

To his surprise, Mary evidently spared little thought for his highly improper visit the previous night. The previous night! Had he really seen her standing before him in her nightgown? _No more of that, now. Think of spectacles. Think of gouty patients. Think of –_

"I have had several days to consider what you said to me on Saturday," she began, in a soft if neutral tone. "Indeed I find I can think of little else."

"Mary, that's what I've come about. I want to tell you how sorry I am –"

"Jack, you were right." Mary looked down at her hands. "My independence is but a sham. I rely upon my father's generosity, on an allowance, very much as I did when I was a little girl."

"Mary, it was cruel of me to say it. It was unfair. You --"

"It was neither cruel nor unfair. It was true," she said softly. "And of course I was angrier for your having spoken the truth of my faults."

"Ah, Mary, what faults would those be?" he said softly. "You've no faults that I can see. And you could do anything. The equal of a man, Frank calls you."

"Indeed I have a great many faults. And I do not aspire to be 'the equal of a man,'" said Mary passionately.

"No." Jack smiled at last. "You're far better than that."

Mary couldn't suppress her own smile. "I never thought to hear you echo the words of Miss Deborah Jenkyns."

"The influence of Cranford is felt everywhere, Miss Smith."

Her smile vanished. "Please, Jack, don't tease. I have been very happy here."

"And why shouldn't you have been? There's not a sweeter soul than Miss Matty."

"No, truly there is not." There were the beginnings of tears in Mary's eyes.

_Oh, no, not this._ "But Miss Matty's well again now, and hasn't her brother come safely home? She'll not stand in your way if you wish to return to Manchester."

"Oh, Jack, I thought you understood why I must stop in Cranford."

"If you came back to Manchester, Mary, we'd never be parted," he said, stepping closer to her.

"If I returned to Manchester, I would have to endure my stepmother's endless fault-finding and heavy-handed attempts at matchmaking, and you would likely face far worse. I can't bear the thought of her subjecting you to her impertinent questions, her tactless manipulations, her excruciating smiles."

Such a creature that stepmother of hers must be! The mere mention of the woman destroyed Mary's even temper so thoroughly that if he'd dared to touch her, she might have come at him with the fireplace poker.

Still, he had to know if there was more she wasn't telling him. "Are you ashamed of me?"

The softness returned to Mary's face, and the warmth. "No, Jack, of course not. But I do not want a Mrs. Clara Smith causing you misery, whether by abuse or flattery, or forever putting you out of humor."

"She'd not do that. I'd not let her."

"Jack, we're already quarreling, and my stepmother isn't even in the room. I have not so much as packed to depart for Manchester, and yet we do not speak as we were used to doing," she said, with her earlier passion. "I shouldn't know a 'Dr. John Marshland' who sent me his 'compliments.'"

His wounded feelings must have been evident on his face, for Mary seemed to regret the words as soon as she uttered them. "But 'Jack Marshland,' who has such a turn of phrase to make me laugh, and the skill to provide me with the right pair of spectacles – I should know him at once," she said gently. "Might we not continue as we have begun?"

"You mean all the letters between here and Manchester, and that I visit you in Cranford of a Sunday?"

"Yes."

For a moment he kept silence. He must choose his next words very carefully.

"Are you saying, Mary, that I've no hope of winning you?"

* * *

It was strangely quiet in the house, thought Martha, despite all the commotion of last night and the addition of a guest this morning. She'd not minded the extra place at breakfast, not at all, and hoped Dr. Marshland had been pleased with her cooking. He'd needed a good meal before setting out for Manchester once more, and it couldn't help matters much that Miss Smith was being so cruel to him.

But he'd not gone yet, and it was so quiet in the house. No, perhaps not that quiet after all; she could hear Miss Matty murmuring something, and a man's voice making reply -- Dr. Marshland's. Oh, he was in for it this morning, though Martha must count him lucky for not having to deal with Miss Jenkyns, God rest her soul.

The sound of Miss Matty's voice was clearer now.

"I wish you a safe journey, Dr. Marshland, and that we may see you return soon."

"Thank you, Miss Matty, for – well, for all your kindness. And please give my apologies to your brother and to Mr. and Mrs. Hearne."

"I will do that, Dr. Marshland. Godspeed."

"Goodbye, Miss Matty."

Martha could hear a door close, and peeped out into the hallway. There was Dr. Marshland, looking nowhere near as lively as he was wont to do, making his way towards the front door. Poor fellow!

Martha had not noticed Miss Smith standing sentry at the end of the hallway, near the front door. As Dr. Marshland approached, she gave him a sad smile and silently extended her hand._ Hard-hearted girl! _thought Martha.

He took her right hand, as though for a formal handshake, and yet Miss Smith suddenly raised her left to touch his face with light fingers.

"Jack, I promise you -- "

At that Dr. Marshland spoke to her, spoke so softly that Martha could not make out the words. Whatever he'd said, Miss Smith was making an effort not to cry, and then he whispered to her again, this time tracing the line of her cheek with his own fingers, lifting her chin delicately. She nodded at him, then kissed him -- once, twice -- as they stood there clasping hands, and he whispered in her ear.

When he next spoke, though, Martha was able to hear his words quite clearly.

"I must go now."

And she watched as Miss Smith, her head bowed, quietly shut the door behind him.

* * *

This would surely be, thought Miss Galindo, the sort of day on which Mr. Carter would be called to every corner of the Hanbury estate to see to one matter or another. The trip to Manchester had taken but little time, and yet staff would, predictably, be approaching him from all sides on his return.

That at least was something she had to consider, given the untidy events of the week, and Mr. Carter's general devotion to duty. And so she made her way to Hanbury that morning with the letter tucked safely in her bag, willing to let it serve as greeting and response if his path and hers did not cross that day.

She had taken great care with her words, and yet felt a lingering desire to rewrite everything she had struggled to express. Her hope was that she'd conveyed enough warmth, enough feeling to give Mr. Carter some satisfaction as to how his own message, to say nothing of his gift, had been received.

It only a beginning, though. She hadn't dared to express all she felt, all she wished to say to him.

There were moments when she was convinced that the last of her energy and wit had been expended in that one letter, and she would be struck silent the next time they met. But perhaps that was all to the good, she thought wryly; indeed, up till then, she had often spoken too hastily, too passionately, and even then not always wisely. If the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson found fault with Miss Galindo's lack of appetite for "stimulating" talk, no one would ever accuse her of failure to express an opinion.

And Mr. Carter had heard a good many of her opinions. It was time she listened to a few of his.

Well, then, she had a plan. She would deliver the letter to his office desk, then set to her work and see what happened next. "'And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day,'" she muttered, echoing King Harry at Agincourt, as she set foot on the grounds of Hanbury Court.

But evidently God had already given particular thought to that day, for when she walked into the office, Mr. Carter was there at his desk.

* * *

Oh, there she was. Thank God. He hadn't missed his opportunity.

"Mr. Carter!" she exclaimed, as though he were the last person she expected to see.

He rose to his feet, managed a smile. "Good morning, Miss Galindo," he said warmly, though he felt hollow inside -- he hadn't been able to eat a thing this morning -- and wished he could brace himself against the desk to stop from trembling.

But if he was unsteady on his feet, she was blushing -- oh, Harry was right about that; she did look very pretty -- and somehow at the same time smiling at him. "I trust your journey went well?"

"Oh, tolerably." They were conversing like two merchants on a street corner. What was this?

"I had hoped as much," she said, rather too quickly, and then appeared to wince. Her hands seemed to be fluttering everywhere -- untying her bonnet, undoing the buttons on her coat. But she smiled again at him, showing those dimples. "And things have gone tolerably well here in Cranford. That is, Mr. Carter, I was most pleasantly surprised by what you arranged yesterday. But that too has its own story -- "

She reached into her bag and pulled out a letter of some sort. She held it in her hands and looked down at it, pausing as if overcome with uncertainty.

"Mr. Carter, I wasn't going to trust to fate that I'd meet you today, and so I wrote my thanks, as well as my thoughts, in a letter. See, I did not so much as let the postman have such a message, and perhaps you will understand why when I tell you what happened."

"Something happened, Miss Galindo?"

She was walking towards him, and this time her eyes had that playfulness he'd seen many times, but also a certain shyness.

"Indeed it did, Mr. Carter, but I assure you the story must be very dull indeed, in comparison with your journey to Manchester."

"On the contrary, I should like very much to hear what you have to say. Shall I read this now?"

"If you like." Suddenly she was blushing again. "Or at your leisure. I know you are busy --"

"Not so busy, Miss Galindo, that I would take no interest in your letter." _What a horrible way to express that. "_I mean I will read every word." _Oh, that was no better. _"Miss Galindo, thank you."

"Indeed, Mr. Carter, it is you who should be receiving thanks."

"And so I have," he said, patting her letter, and straightaway feeling as though he'd said not one sensible word the entire morning.

"No, truly, sir, you have my thanks," she said softly. "When I awoke yesterday morning I had not the least thought of receiving anything so charming, or anything as beautiful, as the flowers you sent." All at once her face had again turned a deep and lovely shade of red, and her words seemed to be at an end. Another awkward pause was in its infancy, and he'd better produce the right answer, or leave her standing there and blushing until Doomsday, for all that he felt a growing need to question her as to what else she was thinking. He looked at the letter, then immediately felt that was rude, then looked at her and smiled again._  
_  
"They say flowers have a language of their own. I do not know much of that, though surely you would. Indeed you have several languages, and I've only English, though sometimes that fails me as well." She smiled warmly, and he at once felt heartened. "We've spent a good deal of time dealing in letters and ledgers and daily reports, and yet I feel I have barely begun to speak to you, and you to me.

"What I wrote in my letter was said in earnest. We need the leisure of an interrupted hour, or perhaps hours, to speak to each other. And I so feared it might prove difficult for you unless I assured you that --"

At that moment a frantic knocking came on the door. It was Hopkins, out of breath and more rattled than usual.

"Good God, Hopkins, whatever is wrong?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Beg your pardon, Miss. Sir, it's Owen -- again. He's had another of his turns. Stubborn old fool, I told him -- "

"Yes, I know, Hopkins. Have you called Dr. Harrison?"

"Why, no, sir, Owen won't -- "

"Damn what Owen will do or not do." The words were out of his mouth before he remembered Miss Galindo was standing there. "Send for Harrison directly," he continued, in a milder tone. "Where is Owen now?"

"We took him home, sir. You know how he is."

"Yes. Perhaps that's just as well. Then tell Harrison to meet me there."

"Yes, sir." As Hopkins vanished out the door, Mr. Carter turned back to Miss Galindo and was very much surprised by the expression in her eyes. He had expected concern, perhaps confusion, but what he actually saw was something closer to patient acceptance. "Miss Galindo, I am sorry --"

"Mr. Carter, you need say nothing at all. We both know you must attend to the matter at hand."

"Yes, I must go to see how this will be resolved, if it ever will." And then yet another troubling thought crossed his mind. "I do apologize for speaking so coarsely just now."

She astonished him yet again; her eyes showed amusement rather than reproach. It was as though she'd caught Harry in a bit of mischief. "I assure you, Mr. Carter, I could take no offense at such a manly and straightforward expression of feeling."

It was cold in the room, and yet his face felt as though it had just been set on fire. "There are times, Miss Galindo, when a man ought not to speak before taking a few moments for thought." _Or a few hours._

"True enough, Mr. Carter, and yet I often find much to admire in frankness." The tilt of her head and the lift of her eyebrows gave him to understand she was teasing again.

"Often, but not always, Miss Galindo," he parried back, smiling, thinking of several uncomfortably frank exchanges they'd shared. He slipped her letter inside his breast pocket and noticed that her eyes followed the very motion of his hand. He picked up his coat and added, "I will speak to you later today."

* * *

It was entirely possible, thought Miss Galindo, that the month of February would pass by without the pleasure -- or perhaps the challenge; she was no longer sure -- of an uninterrupted conversation with Mr. Carter. Their every encounter had unfolded in places frequented by those who had every right to demand their immediate attention.

The nearest thing to privacy they enjoyed was the Sunday lesson with Harry, and even then they were not truly alone. But she sensed that she and Mr. Carter had their own means of communication during that time, and it hadn't a thing to do with French or German, or even edifying essays.

Now Mr. Carter had gone off again, and in the midst of a conversation they'd found difficult enough even to begin. And yet she found no reason to be fretful or nervous -- well, not except for the delicious anticipation of seeing him again, and soon.

It was strange, this sense of peace that seemed to burn quietly within her, this sudden understanding that all would be well. She could not decide from whence it came. She and Mr. Carter had been speaking of languages, of messages, and perhaps this conviction was one such language. Perhaps it was divine.

All _would_ be well.

* * *

Oh, no, he had missed her again.

All the time he'd been talking to Hopkins and Owen, and thereafter to Harrison and Lady Ludlow, he had not been able to stop thinking of her. In fact while he had waited for Harrison to complete his examination and then give his diagnosis Mr. Carter had at last removed the letter from his breast pocket, had opened it, had read every last line, so absorbed in his thoughts and feelings that when Harrison spoke to him he'd started as though he'd been roused from sleeping.

Truth to tell, he'd wanted to shoo Harrison and Owen and the lot of them away, and be alone with his thoughts, but of course he'd risen to his feet and engaged in a lengthy discussion of what they must do for poor old Owen. And then he had gone to her ladyship and produced a nearly identical discussion.

Now the obligations of his work had robbed him yet again of an opportunity to speak to Miss Galindo. _Robbed_. Why did he think his situation so dire? Surely there was time enough to intercept her before she left the grounds of Hanbury.

* * *

It was remarkably mild for February, and she was determined to enjoy her walk home, and the leisure of thinking and dreaming. And so she decided to take a somewhat different route, by way of the charming little bridge at the edge of the lawn. From her childhood she had always loved that bridge and admired the prospect it created. Why had she never made a sketch or painting of that view? Perhaps in the spring, perhaps on a Sunday afternoon she should return here --

All her dreaming vanished as at once she heard a voice calling to her -- a man's voice, and most definitely not out of her dreams, or even her childhood. He was quite real.

Mr. Carter.

* * *

Damn it, why did she have to have such a swift and light step? He was having the devil's own time catching up with her, and the ground was damp. And he felt doubly foolish for having to shout after her -- not the way he meant to begin, not at all.

But she'd turned around at the sound of his voice, and was coming back across the bridge to him. This time he blessed the speed of her progress. And she was smiling, too, as though he were precisely the person she wished to see.

* * *

"I think, Miss Galindo, fate has played its last trick on us."

"Indeed, Mr. Carter? That seems a rather bold assertion."

"True. Perhaps I wish it so, rather than believe it so. But nevertheless, I wish to issue it a challenge -- fate, that is."

"How so?"

"By not letting you escape this afternoon."

"I am not trying to escape, Mr. Carter. I remain of my own free will."

"Do you?" There seemed deeper meaning in the question, and in his eyes, than the words would have suggested.

"I have been trying, Miss Galindo, for some time to determine just what is your will. I must confess that your letter astonished me -- no, do not worry. That was not a reproach. It was just that you spoke of attempting to deserve my friendship. Deserve! No one has ever said such a thing to me, and I am not persuaded anyone ever should, particularly you. In fact I can be something of a penance, as I am certain you are aware."

She smiled but said nothing.

"And I notice you do not contradict me, Miss Galindo. Indeed. Well, certainly you have had vexation and trials enough during our acquaintance --"

"Do not be so ungenerous, Mr. Carter," she said with mock indignation. "I am sure I provided equal torment, in my turn." She turned her wide brown eyes to him. "Shall I furnish you with a ledger containing my sins?"

"No such thing is needed; I can easily name them myself: pride, obstinacy, subterfuge --"

"You _have_ been keeping a list."

"Only since last April."

At that she grew quiet, and looked out towards the brook. "A great deal has happened since then, Mr. Carter."

"Yes."

"Much to regret."

"Some things, perhaps."

"Mr. Carter, do you not sometimes think --"

He turned to her, saw the sorrow in her face. "Do I not sometimes think -- ?" he prompted gently.

"Do you wish you might have a precious day, a few precious hours back, and thereby change all that came after?"

It was a moment before he could speak. "I have allowed myself those thoughts, or did for a time. I do not part easily with the past, as I think you know."

"Nor do I, perhaps."

"But I also remember that all those days and hours have slipped from my hands, and I only have the results of that time, not the time to live over again. But I misspoke just now, Miss Galindo; I do not have only what resulted from the past but also the opportunity, and the will, to make the best use of today. Really, we have nothing else."

_We._

"Mr. Carter --"

"Yes?"

"I should like very much to ask you what you believe to be the best use of today." Miss Galindo cocked her head to one side. "Have you any opinions in that regard?"

"I had not thought, Miss Galindo, that you were overly eager to seek my opinion, but as it happens, yes, I do have some thoughts."

"Thoughts?" She lowered her eyes. "No wishes to speak of?"

"Wishes? Yes, wishes too."

She again tilted her head and looked up at him. "Any that I might assist you in fulfilling?"

"I believe so."

"Mr. Carter, I am not now speaking of the affairs of Hanbury Court."

"I knew that."

"And I confess I did not mean Harry's education either."

"Nor did I."

* * *

Sunday proved rainy and cold, a thoroughly miserable day, and Mr. Carter felt heartsick when he realized both Harry and Miss Galindo were coming on foot to the day's lesson. He ought to have planned better, ought to have arranged to bring both of them safely to Hanbury.

It was Harry who arrived first, fairly drenched and shivering, for all that he was used to being out in all weathers.

Mr. Carter, who had again brought his own fuel, and even the makings of tea, made Harry take off his wet jacket and sit by the grate. He threw his own greatcoat over the boy until he should have warmed himself enough.

The sight of Miss Galindo, when she arrived, was nearly as heart-tugging. She too was used to long walks in any season, and yet today had proved especially dreary, with the sort of bone-chilling rain that comes in late winter or early spring. Mr. Carter ushered her to a seat beside Harry, but she was soon up and bustling about, preparing the tea, seeing to his comfort and the boy's.

Mr. Carter had a suspicion, though, that it was not merely an effort to keep warm that had set her in motion about the room. Everything had changed now, and if she could not speak of it, every gesture, every step of hers did.

He watched Harry's eyes follow her and knew at once that even the boy had sensed something, and that from here forward things would be different.

* * *

To Harry's astonishment, Miss Galindo did not leave early that day, as she was wont to do, but remained for his entire lesson. Harry could sense the light changing outside, and wondered why she didn't hasten to excuse herself and return home. In previous weeks it had been so important, both to Mr. Carter and to Miss Galindo, that she depart early enough to walk safely home, and by herself.

But there were more surprises awaiting him.

"Well, Harry," said Mr. Carter, shutting up a book, "I think it is time I got you home." Harry involuntarily looked to Miss Galindo.

"Harry, don't worry. With all this rain, I'll be sure to see Miss Galindo safely home as well. But you and I will go now, will go first in the gig, and we can talk along the way."

Miss Galindo smiled to herself. At the age of eleven, Harry would already have serious discussions, private discussions, about his future, about his education. Maybe it was just as well he hadn't been sent away to school. In fact, it was better this way. He'd learn to be a man.

And surely a very good man.

* * *

"Harry seemed a bit dispirited," said Mr. Carter on returning. Miss Galindo smiled at the matter-of-fact way he was thinking aloud before her. He was already casually broaching subjects for her opinion, as though they had enjoyed such intimacy for a long while.

"Harry, Mr. Carter, is a clever boy. He knows that something has changed, and perhaps that makes him uneasy." She smiled at him. "I think next Sunday you ought to give him his lessons without my assistance."

"But he does so well under your tutelage, and he's fond of you."

"He was fond of you first, Mr. Carter," she said playfully. "And he will be glad of your attention and company."

"And you?"

"I do not need instruction."

He laughed. "I was thinking of attention, actually, and company." He realized suddenly that she had remained in constant motion since he'd returned. Indeed she never sat down for a moment but was bustling about, putting away the tea things, collecting books, even arranging her desk. He could guess what was wrong and decided to provide her a graceful exit.

"I'd best see you home now."

* * *

It was raining again – so raw, so cold! It would be difficult even to step outside again. She'd have gladly stopped right where she was, and wanted to tell him as much.

Still, she donned coat, bonnet, and gloves, and picked up her bag. "It is almost painful to leave the fireside," she said, walking up to Mr. Carter's desk, where he stood waiting for her.

"But it is only temporary. You'll be safe and warm, soon enough." He was about to lead her outside, but before either realized what the other was doing he had simply taken her in his arms, and she was pressing closely against him, burying her face in his coat, wrapping her arms about him.

"Edward –"

Was she crying? She was holding tightly to him as though she wanted proof that he was alive, that he was there.

At length she tilted her face upwards, and he untied her bonnet, lifted it off, and laid it gently on the desk, then pulled off his own hat and tossed it beside the bonnet.

She was smiling, amused at the gesture and the irony of what stood in their way. "Hats cause _such_ trouble."

But there was no time to laugh. His right hand slid to the nape of her neck, and his fingers into her hair, as he bent his head down to hers.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	22. Confessions

I believe it was in Episode 1 of the BBC's **Cranford** that Jem Hearne observed you could get something "done quick or get it done proper." He would know.

But I leave you to judge whether I've gotten this chapter done proper, because it certainly wasn't done quick. And Chapter 23 is right behind it.

* * *

**Chapter 22: Confessions**

"I believe, Edward, that this is as much seclusion as we have ever enjoyed."

"Strange, is it not, when we have so often been alone together! But you speak truth; we have been always where someone might at once approach us with one demand or another. Even the other day on the bridge we might have been interrupted, though thankfully we were not." He added softly, "Do you think it wrong that we are alone now?"

She smiled up at him. "I could begin a discussion of propriety, or what was done in my parents' day, or Lady Ludlow's," said Miss Galindo. "But none of that is necessary. Edward, I -- may I make a confession?"

"Of course."

"I feel remarkably safe and uncommonly contented just now, standing here with you." She again pressed her head into his shoulder and wrapped her arms about him. "And it is not only that I know you care for my reputation," she added, with a little laugh.

"Hm. I have gone to a great deal of trouble about your reputation!"

"Yes, you have, and so has Lady Ludlow. I have been most incautious, and you assumed responsibility." She looked up at him again, then suddenly rose up on tiptoe to kiss his chin. "And I remain quite reckless, as you see, boldly kissing Lady Ludlow's estate manager, and in his office!"

"And on his chin, which strikes him as a little odd," said Mr. Carter.

"Not odd at all, when I am so fond of your chin," she said, stroking the cleft in it with her forefinger. "It has always proved such a distracting feature, as have your eyes -- indeed I must not slight your eyes; I am even fonder of them -- whenever you were holding forth on one subject or another, and I was forced to remain composed, silent, and distant."

"Silent? Not always," he murmured, with an amused smile.

"Fair enough."

"Composed? Usually," he said, stroking her face, then tilting her chin upwards.

"And distant?"

"No longer."

* * *

"It is so wonderfully peaceful here, with no sound but the rain beating against the windows, and the last crackling of the fire, and of course your voice, Edward."

"And yours."

"And mine. I hope you do not object to my speaking so much."

"Laurie, we have had precious little time to speak to each other, and I have no intention --"

"What did you just call me?"

"'Laurie,'" he said shyly. "I'd imagined calling you so --"

"You cannot have known that was my sister's name for me."

"Why, no."

"And even my parents used it sometimes. As for my brothers," she added with a smile, "it was one of the least objectionable things they called me. You are fortunate, Edward, to have a good, plain name, one that does not lend itself to odd variations."

"It _is_ a plain sort of name. " He paused, then added quietly, "And I will not call you 'Laurie' if it has sad associations."

"You may call me whatever you desire, even 'Miss Galindo,' for it sounds more musical from your lips."

"I had much rather call you 'Mrs. Carter.'"

"That too is formal, but I -- oh, Edward, do you --"

"I am sorry. I wanted to say that more tenderly, to ask you directly."

She studied the buttons on his greatcoat. "Does that mean the name is not mine to keep?" she said, smiling to herself.

"You have my word it is yours, on one condition."

"And that is?"

"That we have the banns read immediately, that we make no delay. I should like things settled. Dear God, I am beginning to sound like Captain Brown! What I mean is that I should like us to marry soon. But perhaps it is wrong for me to seek to extract such a promise from you."

"Edward, today, and at this moment, you might extract as many promises from me as you like."

"I am serious. Laurie, I would like for us to marry this spring."

"You mean that we ought to make good use of our time, as you said the other day."

"Yes."

"And of course we may meet without drawing comment," she added, again studying the buttons on his coat.

"Of course we may, but that is not why I wish for us to marry so soon. And I will wait, if you wish."

"It is not my wish that you wait," she said firmly, looking up at him with a touch of a smile.

"Then you agree to have the banns published immediately?"

"Yes, Edward, and to become your wife in the spring. Shall we shake hands on it?" she said, offering her hand and cocking her head to one side.

"I much prefer another custom."

"You do? Then that shall be as you wish as well."

"As I wish?"

"Yes. I promise."

"You promise, even though you do not know what I am asking?"

"I can guess it well enough. Besides, at this moment I feel equal to any demands you might make of me."

"'Demands'? Am I really so severe?"

She smiled. "Not in this moment."

"Not in this moment. Hm. Then I promise I won't be severe with you, even if I _do_ prove demanding."

And with that Lady Ludlow's estate manager collected another kiss.

* * *

"I once thought to remind Harry that this was my office, not my home," said Mr. Carter, looking into the last embers of the fire.

"I can well imagine both your tone and expression in that moment," said Miss Galindo, watching his face, his eyes in the firelight.

"Indeed you can. I suspect I succeeded in frightening the boy, though that was not my intent."

"And Harry has since become quite at home here, as have I, and you should not succeed in frightening either of us away."

"Nor would I ever seek to." He turned to her and smiled. "But this is still a rather austere place for us to meet, and it is my office, after all."

"There is nowhere more fitting, given the course of our acquaintance. It is a pity, though, that we lack a few of the comforts of a sitting room."

"I still have one good knee, Laurie, if you'd care to join me in this chair."

"I do not think that chair was constructed to hold two people," she said with a little smile. But she took his hand and for a moment they sat side by side, clasping hands and gazing into the fire.

Then he turned to look at her. "Do you mind that I am maimed, I am scarred?" he said quietly.

"Edward." She rose from her chair and knelt before him. "Edward, I will always be grieved at what happened."

"Not always grieved. Please say you will not always be grieved."

"But I must love you the more for it." She took his hands in hers and kissed them. "When I know that I almost lost you. Even now, sometimes I --"

"Sometimes you -- ?"

"Edward, I cannot tell you."

He leaned forward and whispered, "You may tell me anything."

"Sometimes I dream that you did not survive." She laid her head on his knee, and for a moment they both kept silent, as he stroked her hair.

"I dream too, Laurie. I dream of walking great distances, and sometimes I dream that you and I are together."

"Do you?" She raised her head to look at him.

"And when I was away -- in London, in Manchester -- I dreamed of you. Once I even dreamed that you were at the National Gallery with your sketchbook in hand."

"That is intriguing. Was I at least kind to you in your dream?" she said, rising to her feet and drawing her chair closer to his.

"You were too intent on your work to be kind! But it was as though you were with me then, at least for a time."

"My thoughts followed you to London, if not my self."

"I remember your eyes, and the touch of your hand, on on the morning we bade goodbye to each other." He took her hand once again. "It was very much as though several pairs of eyes were following my progress on the journey -- yours, Harry's, Lady Ludlow's.

"And for all that there was to engage me in London, I thought constantly of everyone I'd left behind. But I had little notion of what I'd say to you all when I came home again."

"You needn't have worried on that count. Since your return, you have had a good deal to say to all of us."

"Humph. And sometimes it was awkward or even unpleasant, particularly for you, as I am sure you will never fail to remind me."

"That too is something you must no longer worry about, Edward. In the last months I have often heard you speak with feeling, with warmth, even at times with humor, but always justly, and especially when the subject was awkward or unpleasant."

"Thank you, but I do not think anyone will ever mistake me for a great orator, or a diplomat."

"That I cannot tell you, but I have of late reached the conclusion that your lips are most persuasive, even when you do not use them to speak. Perhaps especially then."

* * *

She was putting on her coat once more when she noticed his expression.

"What are you smiling at, Edward?"

"Your hair is coming undone," he said.

"That is entirely your doing! Still, since you have no looking-glass within this office, I must content myself with being disheveled until tomorrow morning."

"I've never seen much use for a looking-glass here, and besides, no one need comment on your appearance."

"But for you."

"But for me, and it pleases me to see you as you are now."

"You prefer me disheveled?"

"I prefer _you_, and it pleases me to think of how you became disheveled."

"Yes, that is a pleasant thought." She picked up her bonnet from his desk and paused. "Edward --"

"Yes?"

"Before we return to town, might we not take a suitable leave of each other? After all, once we are on my doorstep, we cannot do so properly."

"Or improperly, for that matter," he said, slipping his hands about her waist.

* * *

"You must be my looking-glass now, Edward. Do I look presentable?" In bonnet and coat she stood before him.

"You look very well indeed."

"And my appearance will excite no comment?"

"No, not even from the most incorrigible of gossips."

"Thank you. It must do for this evening. Still, tomorrow I shall take even greater care, for then I must speak to Lady Ludlow."

"And why must you speak to Lady Ludlow?" he said, astonishment in his eyes.

"Edward, I think it best that I inform her of our engagement straightaway, even before we publish the banns."

"I thought we would speak to her together, or perhaps I would first."

"Edward, with your leave, I'd like very much to tell her our news. She has known me all my life, and I feel it only right that I go to her beforehand."

"Do you feel you must justify accepting me?" There was no smile now, no teasing, and his eyes were grave.

"Oh, Edward." She went to him and placed her hands on his chest. "I have the fondest admiration for you -- never doubt it -- and will be proud when everyone knows of our engagement." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "But I think you must acknowledge that my long acquaintance with Lady Ludlow demands that I speak to her in a more intimate fashion. Think of my duty towards her, and of her feelings, and pray do not take offense, not now, when we have every reason to be happy."

"It is only that I feel as though I were concealing something by not speaking to her at once."

"Edward, you are concealing nothing by allowing me to speak to her first," she said, caressing his face.

"I merely thought that we would approach her together, or even that I would seek her blessing by myself."

"But you will accept my going to her alone?"

"Yes, if you think it best."

"Oh, yes, Edward. I do think it best."

* * *

"Oh, my dear. My dear Laurentia." Lady Ludlow smiled. "I do wish you joy."

"Thank you, my lady. I know it will mean a great deal to Edward to have your blessing."

"Of course you both have my blessing. Laurentia, I am so pleased."

"That means a great deal to me as well, for I know that what I have done has not always pleased you."

"In what way, Laurentia?" said Lady Ludlow, with a lift of her brows. "Do you mean the matter regarding Anthony Beckett?"

"By no means, madam. I refer to a much more delicate concern."

"And that is?"

"I feared you might harbor regrets because I resisted your advice once -- indeed, more than once."

"Laurentia," said Lady Ludlow in measured tones, "do you mean concerning marriage?"

"Yes."

"Then pray set your mind at rest. Septimus made you no offer, and I should not have liked to have forced his hand, or yours."

"But I did worry that you might have regarded my resistance as ingratitude."

"Nonsense. Since then I have never had anything but duty and kindness from you. Indeed it is you who have more cause to regret your association with me, and perhaps even with Septimus, than the reverse."

"Lady Ludlow, I owe you my very living. How could I feel anything but the warmest gratitude towards you? And as for Septimus, he was once my playfellow, and to think of him as he was in childhood brings to mind only the happiest of thoughts."

"The happiest of thoughts," repeated Lady Ludlow, her expression at once bleak, troubled. She turned slowly and walked towards the window to gaze out across the lawn.

Miss Galindo followed her. "Forgive me, Lady Ludlow. I did not mean to distress you, now that Septimus is abroad and you --"

"Laurentia, you have said nothing wrong. And it is perhaps best that you confine your memories of Septimus to those of childhood, of happier times."

"My lady, I do think fondly of our shared memories, and yet I do not find my present happiness wanting!"

Lady Ludlow turned to her and smiled. "Of course. You are a bride, and have every reason to be happy."

"And I wish that you might share in our joy."

"I do, Laurentia, most wholeheartedly," she said, nodding her head gravely.

"I am sorry, Lady Ludlow. I had so insisted to Mr. Carter that it was my duty that I speak to you first, and now I fear I have upset you instead. Pray do not be troubled. Surely Septimus's health will improve in time and he --"

"Do not speak to me of Septimus's health," said Lady Ludlow forcefully. She continued, more gently, "Where that is concerned, I have done my best, and must leave the rest to God."

"Forgive me, my lady. I meant no reproach."

"Of course not, Laurentia, and you must not beg my pardon. Indeed it would be more fitting if I begged yours."

"_My_ pardon? I do not understand."

"Laurentia," began Lady Ludlow, "you have achieved your present happiness at a very dear cost, and despite my own folly."

Miss Galindo's lips parted, as if she wished to speak, and her eye were filled with confusion, but she uttered not a word as Lady Ludlow proceeded.

"You know, of course, about the mortgage and the part you were forced to play in raising it. What you perhaps do not know is that Mr. Carter was at the railway site on the day of the explosion to discuss with Captain Brown a means of providing more income for Hanbury Court -- a fruitless exercise for them both, and one for which Mr. Carter paid with months of suffering, and very nearly with his life.

"Laurentia, that was my doing. He'd have had no cause to be there, but for the mortgage, but for my indulgence of Septimus's requests. Oh, my dear, I'd have made you a widow before you were a bride!

"I did not foresee any of this, of course. I thought my duty was to Septimus. But the consequences of what I have done are ever before my eyes. May God forgive me, Laurentia, for I do not think you shall ever have cause to do so."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	23. Now All the Truth Is Out

All characters depicted here, with one exception, are based on the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and** My Lady Ludlow** by Elizabeth Gaskell.

Miss Pole is quoting the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 12, verse 2; Mr. Carter, the poet Andrew Marvell ("To His Coy Mistress").

And of course I got the chapter title from Yeats.

* * *

**Chapter 23: Now All the Truth Is Out**

"It seems, Mrs. Jamieson, that we have at last learned a great secret," said Miss Pole, dipping her chin with an emphatic nod. "'For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed, neither hid, that shall not be known,' as the Holy Scripture has it."

"Apparently so, though I confess I still find the report so incredible as to cause me doubt," replied the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, with the strained expression of a woman suffering a particularly trying headache.

"Oh, there's no reason to doubt," said Mrs. Forrester. "Have we not heard it spoken aloud in church of a Sunday?"

"Indeed we have," said Mrs. Jamieson, shifting uncomfortably on her chair. At the moment when the banns were read for the first time for Edward Carter and _that milliner_, she had gasped audibly, drawing the attention of more than a dozen pairs of eyes as one parishioner after another turned to look. She had forced herself to cough and swiftly retrieved a handkerchief, the better to half-conceal her face.

"However, Mrs. Forrester, I am not persuaded that is no impediment to their marriage."

"Mrs. Jamieson! Surely you cannot mean to stand up before the congregation and set yourself against the union," said Miss Pole, her mouth curving downwards in horror.

"I should never do any such thing," sniffed Mrs. Jamieson. "Though it does astonish one to contemplate Mr. Carter's forgiving nature, in light of what transpired."

"And what should he have to forgive Mrs. Jamieson? I was given to understand there was never any attachment between Miss Galindo and Mr. Beckett," said Mrs. Forrester. "She was merely schooling him in how to cast up accounts and suchlike."

"And one knows Mr. Carter for an enthusiastic advocate of education for the lower classes," said Miss Pole. "Perhaps he even sought Miss Galindo's assistance.

"Besides, he has been most solicitous of her honor," she added, conveniently failing to mention that the gentleman had also taken it upon himself to reprove both herself and Mrs. Forrester after the gossip about Miss Galindo had begun circulating.

"That is true, Miss Pole. Mr. Carter will surely prove a most attentive husband," added Mrs. Forrester. "And they'll look so handsome together -- she so graceful, and he such a fine figure of a man. Why, he must stand full six feet."

"I declare I could never abide to wed a tall gentleman," said Miss Pole, suddenly, frowning. "It should be very much as though a great tree were ever looming over me, and my neck should grow stiff from the unaccustomed posture of looking skywards."

"Upon my word, Miss Pole, you are not likely to have much choice in what sort of gentleman you wed, given that there are so few about, tall or otherwise," cackled Mrs. Forrester.

Miss Pole looked at her friend in dismay. "Did you not say, Mrs. Forrester, that a lady ought not to abandon hope?"

"Indeed I did, and perhaps Miss Galindo is the proof of that. Surely we never thought to see her led to the altar, for all that she is a baronet's daughter."

"Baronet's daughter!" snorted Mrs. Jamieson. "You make entirely too much of that, Mrs. Forrester. If anything, Miss Galindo has sorely needed a lesson in humility. It doesn't do to give oneself airs while trying to sell bonnets of exorbitantly priced Italian straw."

"Mrs. Jamieson, that is really too unkind," said Mrs. Forrester. "Miss Galindo has only done what any of us would do, if made to earn our bread, and she's always been so pleasant about it as well. Surely you don't begrudge her a measure of happiness as she leaves her little shop behind."

"Indeed that is a most intriguing thought, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole. "Miss Galindo has ever been accustomed to being among bonnets and caps, and among ladies as well, and here is an end to that. Now Mr. Carter will carry her off to his own home, and she must bend her will to his." She gave deep sigh.

"There is no need to put on tragic airs, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Jamieson. "I am quite certain Miss Galindo is conscious of her good fortune in ensnaring Mr. Carter."

At that Mrs. Forrester chuckled. "If that's how you would phrase it, Mrs. Jamieson, then you must own that Mr. Carter wanted to be caught."

"Indeed he has a tremendous will, like many of his sex," observed Miss Pole. "I do not think any woman, save perhaps Lady Ludlow, could make him do what he would not.

"But for all that, Mrs. Jamieson, I do not think Miss Galindo unfortunate. Mr. Carter may be a man, and enamored of some curious notions to the bargain, but his manners are not nearly as rough as many another's. And in time, perhaps she may temper his masculine ways."

* * *

_Liverpool_

_My dear Carter,_

_I confess myself delighted by the news that you imparted in your most recent letter. It pleases me greatly to learn that Miss Galindo has accepted your proposal, and will soon be your partner through life. It is better still that neither of you thought to countenance unwise delays, but asked that the banns be read immediately, that you may marry this spring. _

_Of course I wish both of you every happiness, and do hope you will be so kind as to impart that message to your intended bride, until such time as we all should meet again. _

_I expect to be traveling for a few more days, for I have several matters still to resolve, but surely I will return home by early next week._

_In the meantime, accept the good wishes of your faithful friend_

_H. Brown_

_

* * *

_

"Shall we walk, Mary? The roads are not completely dry yet, but I think we may have an easy time of it today."

"I had thought to suggest a walk, but perhaps the exertion would prove too much for you now," said Mary quietly.

Sophy Harrison gave her friend an impish smile. "And why should a walk prove too demanding?"

Mary's only reply was a meaningful look.

At that Sophy laughed. "Do not worry, Mary! I am not with child, at least not yet. Besides, I would not have suggested a walk if I had not energy enough to enjoy it."

"I am sorry, Sophy. I do not know whether I am to guess at your condition or pretend no such questions arise in my mind."

"Mary, you must pretend nothing and apologize for nothing. And I would confide in you, truly I would, if I had any news to report," said Mrs. Harrison, tying on her bonnet.

"I am sorry, Sophy," said Miss Smith again, looking down.

"Mary, there is no need for you to be sorry," said Sophy gently. "Besides, I've not been wed long," she added, smiling.

"Indeed you have not."

"And it is not every woman who holds a baby upon her knee before she's been married a twelvemonth."

"I confess I thought my stepmother, with her quick succession of confinements, was the very model for womankind in that regard!" said Mary, and with that both she and Sophy had to laugh.

"I understand more of such things now that I'm married, and to a physician, at that!" said Sophy, when she could speak again. "Of course, when we were first wed, Frank was too considerate to smile openly about my ignorance of matters of that sort. I confess, though, Mary, that in regard to my understanding of what takes place between husband and wife, I feel quite transformed."

Mary smiled shyly. "And you seem quite contented."

"I am, Mary. I am contented as well."

"Sophy, would you think it strange if I said that I sometimes feel a good deal younger than yourself, for all that I am the elder?"

Mrs. Harrison smiled again. "Of course I would, since you know a great deal more of the world than I do." By now they had stepped outside and were beneath a dull if unthreatening sky.

"More of the world! Frank must take you to Manchester, then, and you shall know quite as much of the world as I do. But I think you understand me. You are a wife, the mistress of a household, and perhaps a mother soon --"

"But not at present," said Sophy, with another smile.

"But not at present," said Mary. "And for all that, Sophy, I admit I feel a certain awkwardness, now that you are wed. I no longer know where confidences end and discretion begins!"

"And when were you anything other than discreet?"

"At home in Manchester, often!" said Mary.

"And is that your own opinion, or another's?" And at that Mary glanced back at Sophy and both of them laughed.

"You can surely guess whose opinion it was, Sophy. There are times when I believe my stepmother is a rather large looking-glass that reflects all my faults back to me."

"Maybe that is the wrong conceit. Perhaps you merely observe her, and she you, rather than her providing a true depiction of your character."

"You mean we make a study of each other, as visitors do the animals in a zoological garden?"

"Yes, but which of you is in a cage?"

At that both women laughed again and yet within a moment Mary was quiet again, and grave.

"Sophy, perhaps you have hit upon the right comparison. For all that Mama lives in a well-appointed if chaotic house with Papa and the little ones, and I live quietly with Miss Matty and Mr. Jenkyns, we are both _confined_, though of course she in more than one sense." They exchanged another wicked smile, and walked on, Sophy linking her arm in Mary's.

"And is that all you see?"

"What do you mean?"

"That perhaps you do not acknowledge all of your choices."

At that Mary smiled. "I think, Sophy, that since your marriage you have become quite the philosopher. What choices have I but returning to my father's house or remaining where I am?"

"There are others."

Mary made no response, and the two women walked on in silence for a moment.

"Mary, forgive me. I would say nothing if I thought you'd be the happier for it, but of course I do not believe that. You need not say a word, but only know that it grieves me to see you troubled."

"Are you of a decided opinion on what I must do?"

"Oh, Mary, let me not speak of opinions. Let me only say that you may trust me, as a friend, with any confidences, or no confidences at all, if that is what you wish."

"Indeed, I trust you with very nearly all my secrets, Sophy, and do not disdain your opinions. Quite the contrary."

A few moments passed before Mary spoke again.

"Sophy, do you truly think it best that I marry, as you have done, and accept the lot of a physician's wife?"

"You do make it sound such a sacrifice!"

"Forgive me. That must seem ungenerous, in light of your happiness."

"There is a good deal more to marriage, Mary, than happiness. To tell truth, there are times when I think Frank is more a boy than a man, and that I am the more mature. But of course that is not so; indeed he is a few years my senior, has seen more of the world, and of course knows all manner of things I do not. What I mean, though, is that he is prone to his tempers and faults and little demands, like any boy or man, and at times I must be the one to exercise patience, to speak in carefully measured words -- yes, even with Frank, kind though he is."

"And if even Frank proves imperfect, then surely womankind must despair!" said Miss Smith with a smile.

"Mary!" said Mrs. Harrison, in mock reproof. "But I suspect Frank is as good a man as I shall ever know, even if he _is_ such a boy at times."

"And Jack remains very much a boy, and at most times."

"Perhaps that is why he is so fond of children," said Sophy. "He is so kind to Helen and Lizzie, and of course they are quite besotted with him. I think often of how he and Walter would have gotten into all manner of scrapes, had they but known each other."

Mary turned to look at Sophy, who was smiling through tears. "Oh, Sophy --"

"Do not worry, Mary. I can speak of Walter now, and remember the things that brought him delight, and find comfort in that. He would have liked Jack, and they'd have amused each other very much, and that is a happy thought."

"Yes, Jack is every bit as mischievous as Walter was, indeed more so. I confess there are times I do not understand Frank's patience with him."

"Mary, they are both physicians, and for all that they are but two grown boys, they do have a very sincere respect for each other, and the fellow feeling born of their shared training at Guy's. Frank explained it to me, and I suspect is it not unlike the comradeship enjoyed by soldiers. And they are good men of science as well, and possess the curiosity, and even the discipline, for such endeavors."

"I do not doubt that. I confess myself quite inadequate to discuss matters that could engage and amuse Jack by the hour."

"But you have such a fine mind, Mary, and great poise in company, and surely Jack must respect that. Besides, you need not embark on a study of medicine to find subjects enough for conversation. Indeed I think a man requires some respite from his profession."

"I do not think anyone will ever accuse Jack of failing to seek a respite from his work! There is little he enjoys so much as pleasant company, and everyone is quite delighted with him -- Mr. Jenkyns, Miss Matty, Jem and Martha Hearne -- and evidently he with them.

"No, I do not think it is in Jack's nature to grieve for thirty years in solitude, until such time as he might bring me primroses and poetry."

"Mary," said Sophy, with an exasperated laugh, "whatever are you speaking of?" But when she turned to Mary, she found the beginnings of tears in her friend's eyes. "Mary?" she said again, more tenderly.

"Sophy, I do not think he will be content to wait for me."

"Nonsense. I see proof enough that his regard for you is sincere."

"That is indeed more than I can see."

"Mary, he will work to make a home for you. He will strive to deserve you."

"Sophy, no man ought to feel he must 'deserve' me."

"You are too harsh with yourself."

"That I do not believe. But I _was_ harsh with Jack."

"I had thought, Mary, that you had given him proof enough of your regard, and even of your tenderness."

"I think he desired something more," said Mary, very softly.

"You were fair enough, and honest as well. Besides," added Mrs. Harrison, with a smile of satisfaction, "it would do Jack no harm to learn something of patience."

"And what must I learn, Sophy?" asked Miss Smith.

Mrs. Harrison stopped in mid-stride and turned to her friend. "Oh, Mary, I would not think to advise you!"

"Please, Sophy."

"Well, then," she said gently, "perhaps you might endeavor to master your fears, and overcome any obstacle that stands between you and Jack."

Mary smiled grimly. "I am not persuaded that I am equal to either task! You and Frank have been able to forgive much, and endure even more, but perhaps Jack and I have not those abilities."

"You and Jack? Why, Mary, two such strong, stubborn hearts must prove equal to anything!"

* * *

"Mr. Carter," said Harry Gregson, looking up from his writing lesson.

"Yes, Harry?" said Mr. Carter, pausing in his own work.

"Miss Galindo must like you very well now."

"Like me! I suppose she must, if she's going to wed me. Why ever did you think of that?"

Harry grinned. "I remember how cross you were with her."

"Yes. Well, I'm not cross with her at present, nor, I dare say, is she cross with me," he said with a little smile.

"She _was_ cross with you once. But I don't believe she was ever frightened of you, sir," added Harry solemnly.

Mr. Carter gave him a look somewhere between exasperation and indulgent good humor. "No, she is not frightened of me, and that's as it should be. Wives ought to respect their husbands, Harry, not fear them."

The boy took that in, then made another observation. "I don't believe she knew how kind you were."

At that Mr. Carter actually chuckled. "She finds me kind enough now, Harry. It would be a bad thing indeed if she did not!

"Now mind you wish her joy, next time you see her, for that's what you say to a lady who is going to be married."

"Yes, sir. I'm very glad Miss Galindo said she is going to wed you."

"Not half so glad as I am, Harry, but thank you."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you --"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Will Miss Galindo still give me lessons now?"

"Before the wedding? Why, yes, as she is able. But afterward, we shall have to see. We should have a proper school soon in Cranford, if all goes to plan, and you must have your lessons there."

"But Dada doesn't want me to go to school, or to give up my place at Hanbury."

"Well, Harry, those are another two matters we must resolve. But know this: You will always have Miss Galindo -- or Mrs. Carter, once we're wed -- and myself as your friends, whatever becomes of you.

"And we will see to it that all goes well for you, Harry, as much as it is in our power to do so. I promise you that."

* * *

"Edward, I must speak to you about a rather important matter, and yet I almost fear to begin."

"My love, you need have no fear," said Mr. Carter, smiling at Miss Galindo from his place at the other side of the fireplace. "And of course you may tell me anything."

"It is only that I should not like to begin our engagement with any unnecessary secrets between us, and quite possibly I have already blundered in that regard."

At that Mr. Carter's expression turned to the one he'd so often worn at Hanbury -- his face solemn but composed, his eyes icy blue and inscrutable -- though this time the exchange was taking place in Miss Galindo's sitting room.

But when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "Go on."

"You know I was most insistent that I alone must reveal the news of our engagement to Lady Ludlow, given our long acquaintance, and you objected, saying you ought to go to her first, or perhaps appear in my company. At the time I thought myself in the right by making the suggestion, but what happened as a result of that interview has made me reconsider what I did.

"Oh, Edward, for all that Lady Ludlow expressed approval, and indeed pleasure, at our announcement, we could not avoid reference to certain unpleasant, even deeply distressing subjects, which we both would fain have avoided."

"And what subjects were those?" he said in measured tones.

Miss Galindo rose from her chair opposite him and bent to tend the fire. With her eyes on the flames, she began again.

"What I have never told you is that many years ago Lady Ludlow briefly entertained the notion of my marrying Septimus. Oh, do not worry, Edward; nothing would ever have come of such a plan. In the first place, Septimus had no wish to marry me, or indeed anyone else, and there was never any engagement.

"And it must be said that I was never an ideal bride, either in terms of rank or wealth. I believe it was only Lady Ludlow's regard for my parents, and consideration of my mother's and my reduced circumstances, that allowed her even to contemplate such a scheme.

"But I am sorry I did not tell you the whole of our history, that you might better understand any awkwardness, or perhaps even concealed resentment."

"And what were your own feelings on the matter?"

"Oh, Edward, that you can even ask that!" she said, turning to look into his eyes and finding a troubled expression there.

"I am sorry; that was quite wrong of me," he began.

"No, you were not wrong to ask. I spoke hastily. Of course you must be curious as to what I made of such a plan."

She drew a chair up next to Mr. Carter's and seated herself by his side. "Edward, I had known Septimus since childhood, indeed knew him nearly as well as my own brothers, and of course was acquainted with his temperament and tastes. We played happily enough together as children, but as we grew older I did not come to admire him or even become particularly fond of him. I regret having to speak so frankly."

"Forgive me. I did not mean to demand reassurances," said Mr. Carter, looking deeply ashamed. Miss Galindo, at his side, reached for his hand and clasped it before she began to speak again.

"When I was a young girl, my mother often spoke to me of marriage," she said quietly. "It was evident she foresaw no other fate for me but to wed, once I was of age," she added, with a rueful smile.

"'Laurentia,' she would say, 'when you come to marry, I don't want to hear about his handsome face or what a dashing figure he cuts in such-and-such a uniform. And do not tell me you are so in love you will die. You mind you choose a man you can respect, and love will come afterwards.'

"My mother, Edward, was not a cold-hearted woman, only very practical. She worried what would become of me, and thought that if she could marry me off to a fine, stable, kind-hearted man, then she could keep me out of trouble!" And at that Miss Galindo smiled for the first time, and Mr. Carter had to smile in response.

Her smile faded. "It cut my mother to the heart to see what became of me, indeed what became of our family."

"But you behaved honorably," said Mr. Carter, kissing her hand.

"Oh, I do not know that," said Miss Galindo, making a sound between a sob and a chuckle. "I mean that she wanted me to establish a home, to have a husband and children, and of course none of that came to pass. She was indeed right that one must not marry without respect, though I parted company with her, of course, on the notion that love need not appear until after the wedding itself.

"She had kind intentions, Edward, very kind intentions, and of course was greatly disappointed of all her expectations.

"And I must own that Lady Ludlow was merely trying to help her, to help me, when she gently encouraged a match with Septimus. But of course you know how that ended as well."

For a moment they sat together, looking into the fire, much as they had done at Mr. Carter's office.

Miss Galindo broke the silence. "Edward, there is more I must tell you of my discussion with Lady Ludlow. I cannot recall how it happened, only that our conversation took a melancholy turn, for all that I was imparting news of joy, but my lady felt she must confess to me the reason you were at the railway site on the -- in June, when you were so badly injured."

"Laurentia," began Mr. Carter.

Miss Galindo, startled by the use of her full Christian name, turned her eyes from the fire to him. Softly, sorrowfully, she continued.

"Edward, she blames herself most severely, and even Septimus, to some degree, that you were there, that you were in such terrible danger. I do not believe her conscience has been at rest since that time."

"I have discussed it with my lady," said Mr. Carter quietly.

"Why did you not tell me?" she asked earnestly, caressing his scarred face.

"It would have served no purpose, and moreover I do not believe my lady bears responsibility for my presence at the site that day, or what happened as a result. I might as well blame myself, or Captain Brown."

"Or me."

"No!"

"Edward, it is true. Lady Ludlow could not have raised the mortgage without my assistance."

"You were blameless! What you did you did out of a desire to serve my lady."

"And the same is true of you. Oh, Edward, surely she knows your heart, and therefore her distress must be the greater."

"But her motives, Laurentia, were not to harm me, but to deny her son nothing he desired. In doing the latter she could not have foreseen the consequences. She could not!"

"Yes, that is indeed the heart of the matter," said Miss Galindo softly. "We know not what consequences our actions will bring, and Lady Ludlow must be made to understand how true that is."

"No! She has indeed suffered enough. Laurentia, I will not --"

"Edward, you misunderstand me. I was not speaking of what transpired on that day at the railway site. I was thinking of what happened earlier last spring. I meant the day Lady Ludlow escorted me into your office and made me your clerk, whether you would or no.

"Edward, can you possibly believe that we would have known each other as well if Lady Ludlow had not tried to thwart your plans for Harry? Can you imagine that we'd be sitting here together if she had not brought me into the scheme?"

He smiled. "You mean we should have forever exchanged half-smiles and nods in hallways and courtyards?"

"Perhaps not even that, Edward," said Miss Galindo, with a lift of her eyebrows. "We came treacherously close to avoiding each other altogether."

"Humph. I do not believe the situation to have been quite so grim."

"Oh, but it was quite grim," she said, with mock seriousness. "We were a safe distance from each other, and should have never so much as engaged in a proper quarrel. That is indeed a horrible thought, and one I cannot bear to contemplate."

"I should have missed quarreling with you."

"You should not have know what sort of an opponent I would make, and whether you might defeat me in a battle of wits. Now at least you must own that you have been conquered."

"By no means, madam. There have been skirmishes, true, but the war continues, and I have every intention of winning as much ground as possible, even if it requires the work of a lifetime."

"I think I might promise you the work of a lifetime," she said with a sly smile. "Though I cannot admit discussion of terms of surrender, not at present."

"But you will, in time," he said, rising from his chair.

"It would appear you are confident of that."

"Did you not tell me I was persuasive?"

"Ah, and so it begins, as you employ my very words as a weapon against me!"

"I have other means," said Mr. Carter, drawing her to her feet.

"Yes, so I have discovered."

* * *

"Edward, I have thought much of what you said the other day," said Miss Galindo a short while later, as they sat side by side before the fire.

"And what was that, my love?"

"What you said about making the best use of the present. I have pondered that a great deal over these past days. Edward, given all that has happened, I do not believe that I shall ever see life as anything other than a gift which may be taken away at any time."

"That is true," he said, the familiar grave expression in his eyes.

"But do not misunderstand me. I do not wish to always grieve for what happened, but to claim the joy we have been granted, the pleasure of being together, of having life itself.

"And on each morning I shall thank God that we have been granted another day together, and at evening I shall speak the same prayer."

"And we must make the most of those waking hours in between, Laurie," he said, turning to her.

"Yes."

"'Thus, though we cannot make our Sun stand still, yet we will make him run,' as the poet says."

"I wish to make you very happy, Edward."

"You _do_ make me happy," he said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

"That is what I want, truly.

"And there is something else, Edward. I should like others to share in our happiness."

* * *

_My Lady,_

_For days I have reflected upon our conversation of a recent Monday morning, and I must confess that your words have lain heavily on my heart. My news, intended to bring you joy, has instead inspired or perhaps renewed your already grievous pain. My lady, that was not my intent, and I beg pardon if I spoke too much in haste. Indeed it might have been better had Mr. Carter sought a private interview with you, as he had planned._

_But we none of us ought to expect that we may undo what is done, nor should we fear acknowledging truth whenever it confronts us. With that in mind, I must write to you in the plainest terms, in the hope that they provide a healing balm._

_My lady, there should have been no friendship between Mr. Carter and myself had you not asked me to serve him. Perhaps you will smile at that, recalling that your intent was to furnish Mr. Carter with a dedicated clerk, and not a wife, though indeed you employed the term "helpmeet" on the day when you escorted me into the office of my most reluctant master._

_But I understand at last that how often it is that our intentions are at variance with the consequences of our deeds, and I confess myself grateful to you for the decision you took. Pray do not allow my boldness to shock you._

_As for the intentions of Mr. Carter's heart, I think neither of us can fault them. Any decisions he took sprang from a desire to serve you, to serve others and indeed our Maker, and he looks not to the past but to the present, that he might make the best use of the days._

_Within a short time I must vow to serve Mr. Carter in another sense, and that I will do as well, with all my heart, because he has offered his own good heart to me. _

_They say God is the Maker of all marriages, but surely it is no sacrilege to acknowledge your own part in this union. For that I will always feel heartfelt gratitude. I beseech you never to doubt it is so._

_On the day that Mr. Carter and I make our vows, our happiness cannot be complete unless you are there to see us joined, to hear our promises to each other. I humbly ask that you honor us with your presence on that day, and share in our joy._

_Most faithfully,_

_Laurentia_

_

* * *

_

"Mr. Carter," said Anthony Beckett, looking up from the ledger. "Forgive me. I did not see you standing there!"

"I am sorry, Beckett. I'd no intention of startling you. Have you a moment to speak with me?"

"Of course. By all means, sir."

"Beckett, please set your mind at rest. I'm not here to deliver another lecture. In fact I have a very different errand in mind."

Beckett grew visibly calmer, though there remained a rather guarded expression in his eyes.

Mr. Carter went on, "Indeed, I must own that I was a good deal too harsh with you the last time we spoke. We parted on very bad terms, Beckett, and you did not deserve that, not after the service you rendered.

"Mind you, I do not take back the reproof I issued on Miss Galindo's behalf. However, my address to you was much more severe than it needed to be, and for that I beg your pardon."

"Sir, there was nothing you said to me that I didn't deserve to hear, and I am mindful of that always," said Beckett warmly. "You needn't beg my pardon. I was reckless, and it was Miss Galindo who paid the price for it."

"She bears you no ill will."

"I know that," said Beckett, smiling. "And I am grateful -- and to you and all. You've both been very kind to me, even when I didn't deserve it."

"Nonsense. I always thought well of you, and I dare say Miss Galindo did as well."

"Thank you, sir."

"And that is yet another reason for my visit. I did not come merely to apologize, but to convey a message as well."

"Sir?"

"Miss Galindo is making plans to close her shop."

"What?" Beckett's mouth was hanging open.

"Because she has agreed to marry me."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	24. A Man's a Man

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and** My Lady Ludlow** by Elizabeth Gaskell.

Many, many thanks to all who are reading this, and special thanks to those who take the time to review.

Dedicated to Albert and everyone at Revels.

* * *

**Chapter 24: A Man's a Man**

"I'd about given up hope of you, Jem Hearne. Your supper's ready, and there's been no one here to eat it!"

"I had to put Miss Tomkinson's shutters right, didn't I, before nightfall."

"It's a wonder to me you can even go back there," said Martha, setting a plate before her husband. "I mean after what happened."

"I don't bear Miss Tomkinson any ill will. Besides, it's work," added Jem.

"Yes, but you always have work enough."

"Oh, aye, I do. But the more I do, the more money we can lay aside. And I've a lot to do now. Mr. Carter's asked me to make him some furniture before he gets wed."

"Mr. Carter's getting married? Lady Ludlow's steward?"

"Aye. He's marrying Miss Galindo."

"The one who makes all Miss Matty's caps?"

"That's the one. They read the banns, Martha," said Jem reprovingly. "Or were you asleep by then?"

"I don't doze off every Sunday," said Martha primly. "It was just that once. Anyway, I've got other things to think about besides other people's weddings – looking after you, for one. Still, I reckon Mr. Carter needs a woman to look after him now too."

"Oh, aye, she'll be looking after him proper," said Jem with a sly grin. "I'm building a fine broad bed for him and the new Mrs. Carter."

"Jem, Miss Galindo's forty if she's a day, and Mr. Carter's well past that."

"He's still a bridegroom."

"And he's lame, Jem," hissed Martha in a whisper. "He's only got one leg."

"That's not the part that matters, Martha."

"Jem Hearne, you are coarse! I just mean that Mr. Carter – well, it's not like he's a strong young fellow getting wed for the first time, not like you were."

"You think a man isn't a man anymore because his bones creak a bit and folk can see his scars? No, Martha, I reckon a man's in his prime as long as he's a mind to be.

"And I'll tell you something else. It's not right for a man to live alone."

"You sound like the rector."

"Oh, aye, it goes back to Adam," he said. "Only we've got more women about these days," he added, with another smile.

"Yes. Well, mind you keep to one, Jem Hearne."

"I've got my one, haven't I, and so has Mr. Carter, and he's as proud and happy as you please. _And_ he's strong. You see him out and about in all weathers, for all that he uses a walking stick."

"And a false limb," whispered Martha, as though she were conveying a horrible secret.

"And what of that? Constable Graves has a bad leg and a back that's no better, and he's got a brood of children at home, and more coming, likely. And then there's Dr. Morgan. Why, I'd wager he's sixty, and he's just got wed, and don't tell me they're living like brother and sister.

"Any road, I reckon when I have to use a stick myself to get about, I'll still be chasing _you_ round the bedchamber."

"And I'll take that stick and clout you with it!" said Martha with a vigorous nod of her head.

"No, you won't. You'll be old as I am then too, anyway, and I'll be able to catch you, and you'll kiss me"

"Maybe."

"Oh, you will. I know you will."

"Humph. I've seen what comes of kissing," said Martha with her hands on her belly.

Jem chuckled. "And so have the neighbors." He put his hands over hers. "Martha –"

"Yes?"

"Would you have still loved me if Dr. Harrison had cut off my arm?"

"But he didn't, Jem. He put you right."

"But what if he hadn't? Would you have still loved me? Would you have wed me?"

"Oh, Jem, you do talk a lot of nonsense!"

"Martha –"

"Of course I'd have loved you, Jem Hearne, and wed you and all. Now stop worrying – well, at least about _that._ You've got furniture to make, and a family to support. But I will not have you falling out of any more trees."

* * *

"Job! I did not expect to see you," said Bella Gregson, rising from her seat at the table as her husband ducked inside the door of their home. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, woman. Everything's right," said Job Gregson, pulling off his hat and bending down to tousle the hair of one of his little daughters.

"Then why are you home at this hour? I thought you had gone to see Mr. Owen."

"That's why I've come. I've just seen old Owen, and he reckons I can take his place. He likes me, Bella, and knows I can do the work."

"But I thought he was staying on --"

"No, there's no talk of that now. He's not well, Bella --"

"Poor man!"

"And the best place for him is with his daughter. That's what he says. Any road, he's off shortly, and I'm to have his place, and we'll be tenants. We'll never live again as we are living now, Bella."

"Oh, thank God." Bella sank down into the chair. Her face crumpled and the tears came. "I never thought to see this day."

"Never thought to see this day? Why, Bella --"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I've been -- Job, I'm pleased. I'm so pleased."

"As well you should be. And you knew we'd be all right, didn't you?"

"Yes," said his wife, after a moment's hesitation. "Job, I should --"

"And in time there should be something for Malachi as well. It won't be long now before he's --"

"No, Job! We can't talk of that now. Malachi is much too young."

"Are you mad? He's older than I was when I started."

"I know. But I was thinking that we could send Harry to school, as he'd wanted, and perhaps Malachi too, now that --"

"We've no need of that, Bella. I told you we'd be fine, and we are."

"Yes. But wouldn't you like to see Harry have his own shop one day, or maybe be a clerk to --"

"A clerk? To Carter?" Job snorted.

"Well, perhaps to a solicitor in Manchester. Harry's clever, Job, and I thought --"

"You thought to send him to the city? No, Bella, the best thing for Harry is to stay where he is, and for Malachi to follow after. And I'll see to the rest of you."

"The rest of us," she said, as if to herself. She rose slowly from her seat. James toddled towards her and began tugging at her skirts. She bent to lift him up, wincing as she did so, and put him astride her hip.

"We'll have more than enough, Bella, with Harry working, and then Malachi, and now --"

"Job, I should have told you I'm -- Job, there's another child coming." Bella eased herself back into the chair and settled James onto her lap.

"When?"

"Oh, not till the autumn, I think."

"Good. Plenty of time, then."

"Plenty of time? For what?"

"Why, for a better house, of course. To make everything as it should be."

"Job, I'm not certain everything is as it should be."

"Don't you want it?"

"That is not what I meant. I'm not well. I feel so – it's not like the other times."

"No? You've always done all right before."

"I am not joking. I feel so queer just now."

"Well, then this time you'll call the midwife," he said gently. Then his expression changed. "Mind you, you'll need only the midwife. I don't want to hear of you taking some pill or tonic from those quacks in town."

"No, Job. I wouldn't think to call on them."

"That's all right, then. And I'll look after you until it's time."

* * *

"Edward, I had nearly given up hope of seeing you this evening," said Miss Galindo, shutting the door behind him.

Edward Carter caught her in his arms and claimed his welcoming kiss. "My love, if you think an evening spent entirely in the company of men would do anything other than drive me directly to your doorstep, you are very much mistaken," he said, his arms still about her waist.

"Surely they did not prove that difficult!"

"No, for the most part, they were quite rational," said Mr. Carter as they walked towards the chairs by the fireplace. "Some were even quite pleased with the plan. Goddard, once he'd satisfied himself about the details, seemed very taken with the idea.

"Morgan, perhaps predictably, supported the principle of a school open to all but was concerned as to how Lady Ludlow might receive it, given her views and of course her own establishment."

"Of course."

"But I need not tell you that young Harrison was wholly in favor.

"Hearne wanted convincing. He works with his hands and doesn't see the value of setting children to learning their letters and sums, and keeping them indoors. I dare say he shall think differently as the years pass and the village changes, but never mind.

"Graves asked good questions; perhaps I have failed to credit him with enough of an imagination before now! He wanted to know what we'd do about harvest time and whether children were to be kept in school when their parents needed their assistance on the land. And he also thought of the prospect of unruly students, and what must be done in the way of discipline.

"And as for Johnson, well –"

"What did he say to you, Edward?"

Mr. Carter grimaced. "Johnson wanted to know if the Irish would be admitted to the school."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I said we'd allow Irish children to attend if there were any to be found in Cranford. _That_ put him out of humor."

"I can well imagine it did! But Edward, you look as exhausted as if you had taken on each one of them in combat. You must have your rest."

"You'd send me away?"

"Not send you away, look after you. And I'd grant you a proper farewell," she said teasingly.

"Mm. There will come a time when you shall not need to send me away."

"Or rather I shall be waiting at home, and you shall return to me. And that time is not far off. Of course," she added, "if you had taken me along with you this evening, we should not have to worry about unnecessary separations."

"What's this?"

"Edward, do you not think that the wives, the mothers, yes, even the spinsters and widows of Cranford might wish to hear you discuss your plan for the school?"

"You mean I ought to have gathered the ladies together as well, or that I should perhaps speak to them separately?"

"Now that is a thought," she said, smiling to herself. "But yes, I do think the women ought to hear of the plan, and pose their questions."

At that Mr. Carter grunted. "As it was, I feared I'd be there all night. Matters are disorderly enough with a group of men!"

"Edward, if you are implying that an assembly of ladies might prove more intractable and unruly than a similar gathering of men, I think you are being most unfair."

"I did not mean it so. It is only that would be more questions to address and more opinions to hear. But the presence of ladies might have been all to the good, and inspired better behavior in the men."

"I should hope so." A new thought occurred to Miss Galindo. "Edward, could you imagine ladies speaking in an assembly, or indeed in Parliament?"

"Ladies in Parliament? Laurie, I sometimes think you are determined to tax my imagination, to say nothing of my patience, with your visions of progress. Next you will declare that a woman ought to succeed Mr. Peel."

"Edward, do be serious!"

Mr. Carter considered her proposition quietly for a moment, amusement in his eyes and a smile on his lips, as she studied his face in the firelight.

"Ladies in Parliament. Hm. You will not be offended if I speak truthfully?

"Not at all. Your usual frankness, if you please."

"Yes, I can very much imagine ladies discussing a topic seriously, and at length, and with wit and understanding, and of course feeling. But for that you must make an admission in return."

"And what is that, Edward?"

"That if some men lack imagination, and tolerance, and understanding, then so do some women."

"Oh, clearly that is true, Edward, and I'd admit that many a woman proves hasty in her words and judgments, particularly in circumstances where she lacks a firm grasp of the facts. I have proof enough of that. Indeed I have done it often enough myself."

"Well, men do the same," he said.

"Indeed they do."

"And I see it often enough – every day, in fact."

"And given my occupation, and the nature of this town, I hear perhaps more advice and opinions from ladies than I'd care to recall." She gave a little gasp. "Edward, you really ought to have considered that before you called your meeting."

"Considered what, Laurie?"

She turned to him and gave him a comforting kiss on the cheek before murmuring into his ear, "Edward, the ladies of Cranford will surely discuss your plan, whether you wish it or not, and whether or not you are present to hear it!"

* * *

"What think you of this notion of opening a school, Mrs. Harrison?" said Miss Pole, as Mrs. Morgan poured her another cup of tea.

"I do not as yet know much of the arrangements, Miss Pole, but my husband tells me it is a worthy project, one that will mark Cranford's citizens as forward-thinking. And I must add that my father is quite taken with the plan as well," said Sophy Harrison.

"But what are your own thoughts?" asked Miss Galindo suddenly. "Forgive me, Miss Pole," she added, blushing. "I did not mean to interrupt your tête-à-tête with Mrs. Harrison."

Mrs. Harrison smiled encouragingly. "Miss Galindo, it is only right that you should join our discussion, as you have such a personal connection with the new school."

"Pray do not assume greater involvement on my part than is there, for the plan is a cherished dream of Mr. Carter's, and of course predates my acquaintance with him."

"But a wife always shares in her husband's work in one fashion or another, Miss Galindo," said Mrs. Morgan. "I know the truth of that, and I suspect Mrs. Harrison does as well."

Sophy laughed gently. "Yes, to wed a physician is to marry his profession as well, and consequently learn everything there is to know of pills and house calls!"

"My sister, Deborah, was of a very decided opinion on the part a wife might take in her husband's work. I dare say she thought to marry a curate, and assist him in writing his sermons," said Miss Matty, to the startled laughter of several of the other ladies.

"I should not be so quick to laugh. Miss Jenkyns might have proved quite as eloquent as any man, perhaps more so, had she come to pen those very sermons," said Miss Smith with a nod.

"I believe that as well, Mary," said Mrs. Harrison. "Miss Jenkyns possessed both intelligence and principles, and always expressed her mind so decidedly and so well."

"Then you think the educated woman might take her place in all trades and professions, Mrs. Harrison?" asked Miss Galindo.

"Indeed I cannot say, Miss Galindo. I have concerned myself so much with the education of my brother, and now with the profession of my husband, that I have not given a thought to what I should do, if made to earn my living."

"And that is the lot of woman, Sophy!" said Miss Smith. "We must endeavor to be strong, accomplished, and yet always give way to the demands of fathers and husbands and brothers."

"That was certainly true of my mother," said Mrs. Gordon suddenly, a sorrowful look in her eyes. "For all that I am a soldier's wife myself, I must own that it was my mother who truly knew the meaning of that calling. How patiently she endured my father's absences, and her fears for his safety!"

A melancholy silence descended on the party at that, and Miss Pole undertook to rescue them all. "Isn't it just like a man, Mrs. Gordon, to be positively thriving when his womenfolk are consumed with worry for his welfare? I confess I have never seen husbands and fathers going this place and that, to the degree that the men of your household have done."

"Yes, Father is often away, and of course my husband is as well, the one on railway business, the other making preparations for our new home. Thank God, though, that they are no longer called upon to take up arms, even if they have responsibilities enough at present."

"I rather think, Mrs. Gordon, that a man craves useful work, a sense of purpose. For my part, I do not believe Mr. Carter could bear to be idle, or to see others so," said Miss Galindo.

"Oh, that is certainly true enough, Miss Galindo," said Miss Pole before Jessie could open her mouth in reply. "I have long wondered, for instance, at how he has taken that gipsy boy in hand."

"You mean Harry Gregson?"

"I do. Upon my word, Miss Galindo, do you not worry that such an imp will abuse Mr. Carter's kindness, and create trouble for him at length?"

"I think, Miss Pole, that you should be astonished at the alteration in young Harry's manners. He is clever, amusing, even charming, and speaks like quite the young gentleman now."

"Humph," said Miss Pole, frowning. "And what has effected such a change in the little rogue? He's not feigning obedience, is he, until such time as he might defraud Mr. Carter of a few shillings?"

"Miss Pole, I think you might safely trust Harry –"

"Indeed not!" interrupted Miss Pole. "You know what that father of his is like –"

"I confess I am not acquainted with Mr. Gregson, but I do know his eldest son quite well, and there is no malice in Harry, Miss Pole. He is quite gentle, and under Mr. Carter's tutelage he is thriving. And indeed what Mr. Carter wishes for any child is kindness and discipline, and of course education, even if or perhaps especially when that child must transcend his circumstances."

"Hence the plan for the school," added Mrs. Harrison helpfully.

"Mrs. Johnson says Mr. Carter means to admit the Irish," said Mrs. Forrester, wide-eyed. "Is that true, Miss Galindo?"

"Indeed it is, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Galindo.

"Mrs. Johnson said her husband came home with the news after the discussion with Mr. Carter and the other gentlemen –"

"Men! Gathering in secret, like thieves, and not telling us a word of it," snorted Miss Pole.

"Miss Pole, the meeting was by no means a secret," said Miss Smith.

"And Mrs. Johnson said her husband told her all about it," continued Mrs. Forrester.

"As well he might, but we have no husbands to give us report of such things, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole.

Mrs. Forrester let that comment pass and turned again to Miss Galindo. "Mrs. Johnson was of a very decided opinion that it should ruin the school if Mr. Carter let the Irish in."

"Oh, but that must be too harsh a judgment," said Miss Matty before anyone else could speak. "I mean that surely the little Irish children ought also to learn their letters and sums. There cannot be any harm in it," she added, looking a little uncertain as to her final pronouncement.

"Indeed there can be no harm in it," said Mary Smith softly. "And I applaud Mr. Carter's ideals, and his wish to provide a school for all the children, girls as well as boys, and the Irish as well as the English and Welsh."

"But I do not think there _are_ any Irish in Cranford, at least not at present," said Mrs. Morgan.

"No, but there surely will be soon," said Miss Pole.

"Whatever do you mean?" said Miss Smith.

"Because of the railway, of course. And that shall be the undoing of us all!"

"Oh, surely not," said Miss Smith, casting a reassuring glance at Mrs. Gordon. "Indeed I think the railway must bring many advantages. Consider the speed with which letters from absent friends will arrive, or the pleasure we shall have when oranges and other goods are brought directly to Cranford, rather than being carried by waggon all the way from Manchester."

"And there will come a time," said Mrs. Gordon quietly, "when I shall wish to return from Scotland to visit Cranford, and the railway will provide by far the swiftest means."

"That is a happy thought," said Miss Matty gently. "And I say that not only on your father's behalf but on our own."

"I shall very much regret having to leave him, and all of you," said Mrs. Gordon.

"You'll be very much missed, my dear," said Mrs. Forrester warmly. "And we know that you only leave us out of duty to your husband, and not for any want of affection for your father. After all, that is the natural order of things."

At that Sophy Harrison smiled. "My father would say it is the will of God."

"What is, Mrs. Harrison?" asked Mrs. Forrester.

"That Mrs. Gordon depart from her father's house and go to her husband's. It is said in the reverse in Genesis: 'Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.'"

At that Miss Pole snorted again. "It is astonishing, is it not, how frequently that which serves the best interests of the men enjoys the very sanction of God Himself."

* * *

Mrs. Morgan was bidding her guests farewell when Miss Galindo intercepted Miss Matty and Miss Smith.

"I should very much like to thank you for your kindness in speaking in defense of Mr. Carter," she said quietly. "It means a great deal to me, and of course words are always stronger when they come from an impartial source."

"Why, Miss Galindo, it must be understood that we hold Mr. Carter in the highest esteem," said Miss Matty. "I should not like you to think otherwise!"

"And I confess that I might not be considered impartial," added Miss Smith, "though I too have the most sincere respect for Mr. Carter. But I cannot bear that anyone sit in judgment of a man who is not there to defend himself. I trust you understand my meaning."

"Yes, Miss Smith," said Miss Galindo. "Rest assured that I understand you very well."

* * *

Miss Smith and Miss Matty opened the door of the house to find Martha seated on the stairs. She did not rise to receive them but remained where she was, hands folded over her belly.

"Martha, whatever is wrong?" said Miss Matty.

Martha looked up. "I'm sorry, Miss Matty. I just had to rest here a moment. Has Jem come home yet?"

"Why, no, Martha, we cannot expect him for hours. You know that," said Miss Matty. "Martha, are you quite well?"

Martha, her eyes avoiding Miss Matty's, seemed undecided as to what reply to make.

"It's beginning, isn't it, Martha?" said Mary briskly, and at that Martha was able to nod in response.

"Oh," said Miss Matty softly. "Oh! Whatever shall we do first, Mary?"

"I think, Miss Matty, we might help Martha to a more comfortable place."

"Oh, yes. Do give me your hand, Martha." With Matty taking one hand and Mary supporting Martha by the elbow, they lifted her slowly from the stairs. "What next?"

"We must remain calm, and patient."

* * *

_To be continued…_

**A/N: Mr. Peel: Robert Peel, prime minister from 1834 to 1835, and from 1841 to 1846.**


	25. Wednesday's Child

The following was inspired by the BBC's **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell.

Of course I have no connection whatsoever to the BBC and/or Mrs. Gaskell, and I have taken many liberties with plot and characters. As usual, much of the inspiration came from the actors' performances. Imagination -- or is it obsession? -- and research did the rest.

This chapter has been taking shape for quite some time, assumed a very different form from what I'd once intended, and proved difficult to write. Many, many thanks to everyone who takes the time to review, and a special note of appreciation to theHuntgoeson for that much-needed lesson in British vocabulary.

* * *

**Chapter 25: Wednesday's Child**

They'd wanted to give him a moment, Jem knew, by all quietly slipping away when they'd done their work. He stood alone now at the entrance to the room and opened the door softly, almost hesitantly. On seeing his wife lying in the bed, he was surprised by the sudden sting of tears in his eyes.

"Oh, you're a stubborn woman, Martha. Didn't I tell you we needed Dr. Harrison to put you right?"

Martha, as unrepentant as she was weary, looked up at him with a drowsy smile. "My mother always called the midwife, Jem, and it did her no harm. Besides, I don't like a man seeing me like that."

"Aye, Martha, but you'll be in no fit state at all if you decide when to keep the doctor from our door," said Jem, drawing a chair to her bedside. "And Mrs. Capps herself told you to call Dr. Harrison."

"She did. But this little mite" – and Martha dropped a kiss on the top of her newborn daughter's head – "had caused me pain enough before Dr. Harrison got to the house -- bringing all his needles with him," she added, grimacing.

"I'll wager she did, at that," said Jem. "But we'd not all three be here now, would we, if Dr. Harrison hadn't used one on my arm when he first came."

"Maybe not," said Martha, looking first at him, then down at their child, with equal tenderness. "She does look like you, Jem!"

"I've more hair, Martha, and don't open my mouth as often."

"Humph!"

"Any road, she'll be prettier than her father. Aye, she'll be a soft pink rosebud, our Matilda Mary," he said in a whisper, stroking his daughter's tiny fist with one of his great rough fingers.

"She will be," said Martha. "Our little Matilda Mary."

"It was good of Miss Smith to stay by your side, and to let Miss Matty take her rest."

At that Martha gave a tired little giggle. "Miss Smith at least knows what to expect of a woman in childbed. But poor Miss Matty – Jem, I thought Miss Smith and Mrs. Capps would have to fetch her the smelling-bottle, once I started shouting! Miss Matty was _quite _worried," she added, with another giggle. "No, it was better that Miss Smith remained behind to help. Oh, Jem, she was kind to me, and so calm."

"Aye, she's steady. Dr. Harrison has always said as much. I shouldn't wonder if he wanted her to help him most days."

"Most days? I don't believe Miss Smith has time enough for that."

"No, perhaps not, not with you abed and Miss Matty having to run the household, and without Miss Jenkyns too."

"I didn't mean that, Jem, though that's true enough. No, I'd wager that Miss Matty must learn to do without Miss Smith as well."

Jem looked up. "She hasn't said she'll wed Dr. Marshland, has she?"

For all that she was tired as she'd never been, Martha managed a serene smile. "No, she hasn't yet, Jem, but she will. You mark my words." She looked down at her daughter and added softly, "And then you'll see her with her own little Matilda."

"Aye, or her own little Jack."

* * *

What Bella had said to Job the other day had been true: she was carrying his child, and it wasn't like the other times. Yet she had struggled with the very notion of telling him anything at all – the child would arrive, whether she said anything beforehand or not – but at last decided it was only right she should speak to him.

What Job could not know, however, was that today the pains were much worse, and so was the feeling that the room was turning all about her. She'd not said a word of her illness before he went off with Mr. Owen that morning. In fact they'd said little to each other before his departure, maintaining a cold near-silence after the harsh words of the previous night.

Why had she been so angry with him, especially now, when everything was going to be all right? She hoped he would come home soon, and then she could beg his pardon.

But just now she felt so queer. This wasn't like the fever, or anything else she had known before. And the pains were coming in her shoulder now, and not only her belly. There had been blood this morning, too. She hadn't expected that -- truth to tell, she'd expected none of this -- and she pushed from her mind the thought that she would lose this child.

She could not tell the children what was wrong, though Harry, God bless him, had seen that she wasn't well, and so, curiously, had Malachi, who, if he had kept his distance that morning, still turned troubled eyes on her when he was in the house. Strange, wasn't it, that her boys were watching over her when Job was from home, though they could do nothing to help her.

But she dared not summon a surgeon. Perhaps if she but lay down on the bed for a time, perhaps if she closed her eyes for a moment, she'd be in a fit state when Job came home.

All about her the children were becoming restless. James was crying, and she hadn't strength enough to rise from the bed to lift him up. She'd have asked Harry or perhaps Malachi to take him, but neither boy was there – Malachi wandering the woods and the fields, no doubt, and Harry long since gone to Hanbury, where he was doing the work of a man.

Harry. God alone knew what she and Job would have done without Harry. She'd not so much as had to ask him to look after the little ones; he saw what needed to be done, and did it. If he hadn't been a bit of a scamp at times, she'd have worried about him, and taken him for an angel, not a child of hers.

But if Harry was a good boy, he was a clever one as well, and it was very wrong of Job to forbid him go to school.

As she lay on the bed, she knew suddenly that it was Job who should beg pardon of her, and not the other way round. She had asked him for this one thing, and he had denied it. Oh, he'd made her his fine promises of trinkets and dainties and new clothes to wear. Bella would have none of them, even if Job kept his word. She wanted all to be well with her children; that was what she had set her heart upon.

And that meant Harry would make his own way, would do well for himself, whatever Lady Ludlow wished, whatever Job believed. They'd not bend Harry to their will, nor would they break her own.

When Job came home, she would tell him as much. But now she must rest.

* * *

Harry's arms hurt, and he was already hungry, for all that it was still morning. He'd not slept much the previous night, and had lain awake long after his parents had gone to bed, the stiff and cold silence seemingly everywhere after the angry words they'd said to each other. He'd never heard Mum speak to Dada like that before, nor had he ever caused a quarrel between them -- not that he knew. But it was his fault now that Mum and Dada were angry with each other, and he knew better than to believe anyone but Dada would have his way.

Harry felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he went about his work. Mum wasn't well, and now he had made Dada angry with her, and with him, and even with Mr. Carter. He couldn't understand how Dada could speak so gently to Mum at one moment and then seem on the verge of striking her at another. Not that he'd ever seen Dada harm Mum, but he'd seen her flinch whenever he raised his voice.

Something was different now, though. Dada was going to work for Lady Ludlow, and they'd have a proper home, and Mum was going to have another baby -- Harry had heard her talking about it with Dada, when they both thought he was asleep -- and everything ought to have been all right. But it _wasn't_ all right, not from what Mum was saying --

"Harry!"

He looked up, and there was Malachi in the doorway, breathless from running.

* * *

Dada had gone with Mr. Owen, and no one could say where. Harry, fairly dragging Malachi along with him, went from place to place hoping to discover someone, anyone, who knew what had become of the two of them. They went to the game pens, the outbuildings, but found no trace of Dada or Mr. Owen.

At length Harry formed a resolution. He must find Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter would know what to do, where to find help.

They ran to the office but found it locked up tight, and there was no sign of Miss Galindo. Mr. Carter surely was out and about on the estate, and Miss Galindo, who did not come to the office every day, would be in town.

_In town._

"Malachi, I want you to go to town and fetch Dr. Frank Harrison."

"I've never been to town by myself," said Malachi fretfully.

"Just do it! And you'll have to run --"

"Why can't you go, Harry?"

"I'm going to go stay with Mum until you come with the doctor."

"But I don't know any Mr. Harrison," said Malachi, his tears beginning afresh.

"Just go to town and tell anyone you meet that you need a surgeon for Mum. They'll tell you where Dr. Harrison lives. Do it, Malachi! He'll know how to help her.

"Now run. Run!"

* * *

The man with the cart reminded Malachi very much of Dada -- tall and bearded. He had kind eyes too, as Dada's were at those times, such as Christmas, when they all were happy.

"Mr. Harrison? I don't know of any Mr. Harrison," said the stranger. At that Malachi began to cry, and the man said, "Now there, little fellow, no fear. I_ wouldn't_ know. I don't live in the village! Now what should a little lad like you want with this Mr. Harrison?"

"It's Mum. She's not well," said Malachi, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"Your mam is poorly? Is Mr. Harrison the surgeon, then? Why, then you must find him.

"I'm on my way to see the joiner, and he'll surely know where a surgeon lives. Climb up on the cart, and you'll not have so far to walk. Come on, boy. You're safe enough with me," he added kindly, when Malachi hesitated. "Climb up. We'll ask where this Mr. Harrison is to be found."

* * *

"Sophy, my dear, I must speak a word with you in private."

Sophy Harrison looked down at the little boy by her side. "Stay here, Malachi, while I speak with Dr. Morgan. Do not worry. We shall return to you directly."

When she had joined Dr. Morgan in the next room, he closed the door and turned to her in a fit of agitation. "Sophy, I cannot allow this!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "It is most improper!"

"Dr. Morgan, I see no harm in accompanying you, especially when the boy is so frightened. He does not know you --"

"He never knew _you_ until five minutes ago!"

" -- and he would be calmer if I went with you to help his poor mother."

"Sophy, you cannot wish me to take you to Hareman's Lane. Consider the sort of people who live there. You would be going among squatters, my dear. Frank would not forgive me if anything happened to you, and neither, for that matter, would your father."

"My father, Dr. Morgan, taught me to love my neighbor as myself," said Sophy, with as much anger as she dared to summon. "As for Frank, I thought he believed, as you do, that a physician never sees to a patient's needs without keeping in mind the distress of the family, and the importance of compassion."

Dr. Morgan stood looking at her for a moment, a slight blush of shame taking the place of the indignation that had been evident on his face a moment before.

"Very well, Sophy," he said, sighing. "We shall accompany this dirty little imp back to Hareman's Lane. But God alone knows what we shall find there."

* * *

She had not deserved this, thought Morgan, looking down at her pale oval of a face with its full, beautifully formed lips, and the eyes shut as if in sleep. He could not tell her age with certainty, but she ought not to have died, not in the prime of life and not with a brood of six children left behind.

Morgan tried to imagine what had brought her to this – something amiss with her heart, perhaps. Or maybe she had been carrying another child and it had lain in the wrong place, and so she had lost it, and with it her life. He had seen it before. Or perhaps she had been with child and sought to do away with it herself -- he had seen that before as well -- but there were no signs she had done so, none that he could discover.

But of course there was little he _could_ discover, thought Morgan, overtaken once more by the physician's familiar feeling of helplessness. He had simply been called too late, or indeed in vain. And he was not about to conduct a postmortem examination while this poor woman's children were gathered round.

Sophy, with practiced patience, was dealing with the little ones -- the fair-haired girls tugging at her skirts, the boy Malachi weeping yet again, the smallest child wailing as she held him on her hip and bobbed up and down in an attempt at comfort.

Dr. Morgan, able to do little else, was speaking with the eldest boy, Harry Gregson by name, a solemn-eyed child, remarkably intelligent -- not at all what the physician had been expecting when he'd been summoned to Hareman's Lane.

As gently as he could, he said to Harry, "We must send word to your father, my lad, or any relations you have nearby."

"Yes, sir. Dada -- my father works for Lady Ludlow. I tried to find him before -- before I came home." The boy had still not shed a tear, and it worried Morgan.

"We must send word to Lady Ludlow's estate manager, and he will find your father."

"Yes, sir. But my father won't like it that I've sent for you."

"No? Harry, do not worry. Your father owes no fee, and besides, he will understand you were trying to help."

At that Harry said nothing, but Morgan saw doubt, even fear in his eyes.

He pressed on, as gently as he could. "Had your mother been ill long, Harry?"

"I don't know, sir. But she had pains --"

"Pains?"

"Yes, sir. And she had trouble lifting James -- I mean the baby, sir. My brother."

"I see. Go on."

"And I heard her tell Dada -- I heard her tell my father she was going to have another baby, and that something was wrong." He lowered his eyes and added, "But they didn't know I had heard."

* * *

Job Gregson was not a man given to reflection or self-reproach, and yet the memory of the words he'd exchanged with Bella the previous night, and of the look on her face that morning, had troubled him throughout the day. He'd a right to expect her obedience, and his son's, and yet could not help thinking that this time, at least, he had been in the wrong.

They'd spoken of it often enough before, Bella always fearfully, as though she believed uttering the word _school_ before her husband would carry with it sure punishment.

The truth was, he'd never raised a hand to her, even when he was very angry. No, he was always gentle, and especially so when they'd been apart for a time, which had been often enough in recent years. Still, it was plain she knew there there things he did not like, things she did not care to speak of in his presence, and their quarrels were rare as long as she remembered to hold her tongue, and avoid vexing him.

But now Bella had grown stubborn. He had seen the change in her, and it was all because of Harry -- both mother and son bewitched, Job thought, by all the things the boy had seen at Hanbury, and those books Carter had brought him from London and Manchester.

As for Carter, he was an odd sort of man, grave and stern as a magistrate in some ways, and soft-hearted as a girl in others. He kept away from the drink, had no time for anything but work, and set as much store by books as he would a roomful of gold.

And Carter had no wife, no children of his own, and so must prove meddlesome. He'd taken Harry in hand, and that had been the beginning of the trouble. Now the boy was given to strange talk, indeed strange words, all these odd names -- _Dickens, Aesop. _His tongue had been loosened, and he was always full of questions about the wider world, the places he wished to see, the things he might do. Carter was the cause of all this mischief; of that there was no doubt.

And there was worse. Mr. Carter was right, Bella had told him. Harry was clever, and ought to go to school.

It cut Job to the heart to hear such a thing. Bella was ashamed of him now, of what he was. He saw it in her eyes, heard it in her voice, and never so clearly until that previous night.

She'd never complained before, not until these queer notions of schools and books had filled her head. She found Job wanting now -- indeed, not only wanting but at fault for all their ills, for their lack of a proper home. And he had done Harry great wrong, she said, and she'd never forgive him till he put it right.

It was cruel of her, thought Job, to make such a complaint against him when he'd struggled to keep Harry fed and shod, and maintained silence when the boy might have been taken for poaching.

Yet even today Job need not go hat in hand to Bella. Surely she would be in a better temper this evening, given more to entreaties than quarrels. She'd ask his pardon, as she had done so many times before.

And this time, perhaps, when she had turned to him, all soft and sorrowful, he might yield to her pleas, might prove kind to to her, as kind as ever he'd been before. He'd hint that in time they might find a way to send Harry to school. That would give her comfort, especially when she was so poorly.

* * *

"The boy can go with you to the joiner, and to the rector."

"If you prefer, Mr. Gregson."

"It's only fitting. I'd go myself, but --"

Mr. Carter nodded. _He cannot bear to leave her_, he thought.

"I can't provide much for her," Job Gregson continued. "Just the -- just a place to rest, and perhaps you could ask the rector could say some words over her."

"Of course."

"Mind you, I don't want to hear about judgment, and how sinful we all are. She was a good woman, Mr. Carter."

"Yes."

"She doesn't deserve that sort of talk."

"I am certain the church will offer words of comfort, of hope," said Mr. Carter, feeling nearly ashamed at introducing such feeble terms as _comfort_ and_ hope_ at that moment.

"That's as it should be. She always liked hearing the part about the mansions, and the one about the still waters." His voice had lowered nearly to a whisper, and for a moment it seemed he could not speak at all. "If they won't read that for her, perhaps Harry can do it." At last he looked at Mr. Carter directly. "You'll help him with it, won't you?"

"Of course, and we'll see to the other matters as well. And do not worry about the fees; I can arrange --"

"No." The word was final, unassailable.

But Gregson's expression had softened. "Harry always said you were a kind man.

"And she -- she thought well of you and all."

* * *

The joiner had kind eyes, thought Harry, and a ready smile, for all that he looked weary with work. He seemed to know Mr. Carter well, greeted him warmly, and at once began talking of the fine news he had to share -- all of which, Harry noticed, served to make Mr. Carter even more uncomfortable than he already was.

Mr. Hearne did not know why they were there, then, and was still talking when Mr. Carter turned to Harry and whispered, "Perhaps it would be best if you waited outside." With a nod he sent the boy out into the spring air.

Standing beneath the window, though, Harry could still hear what was being said, and knew what it meant when Mr. Carter carefully lowered his voice.

"Job Gregson's wife has --"

That was all Harry heard, or as much as he could bear to hear. He bolted from the spot, feeling the wind against his face and at the same time the now-familiar emptiness within. By the time he was out of earshot of both men he had released a gutteral cry and, at last, his tears.

* * *

"And so all things must end, Miss Galindo."

"Indeed they must, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Galindo, gathering up ribbons. "And yet that expression savors too much of solemnity for such a simple matter as the closing of my shop," she added, smiling. "There will no doubt be another such establishment, and soon."

"I suspect there will be, Miss Galindo," said Miss Pole. "After all, the ladies of this town still have need enough of caps and bonnets, and cannot forever be going to Manchester to obtain the same."

"No indeed," said Mrs. Forrester. "But it is not only this shop, Miss Galindo. I shall very much miss seeing you."

"That is most kind of you."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester," sputtered Miss Pole. "Miss Galindo is only changing her name. She is neither embarking upon a voyage to Africa nor secluding herself behind convent walls!"

"I dare say I am doing more than changing my name, Miss Pole, but otherwise you are entirely correct. Indeed I suspect you will see as much of Mr. Carter and myself as ever you did before!"

"Talking of seeing Mr. Carter, I wonder, Miss Galindo, why he did not choose to reveal to all the ladies this plan for the school --"

"You speak as though there had been some subterfuge involved," interrupted Mrs. Forrester. "That is entirely unfair."

"I am making no such assertion, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole indignantly. "But I dwell within the village, and so must take an interest in all that transpires here."

"And progress, wherever it occurs, must surely be of interest to a lady as much as to a gentleman, Miss Pole," said Miss Galindo warmly. "And you would like to hear discussion of it, and form your opinions accordingly."

"Indeed I should, and I suspect the other ladies would as well," said Miss Pole, noting well the smile that was stealing across Miss Galindo's face. _Upon my word, one thinks of the puss with the saucer of cream._

"If that is your opinion, Miss Pole, then surely I must entreat --"

At that moment the shop door opened.

Miss Pole glanced around to see the new arrival, pulled a face, and turned back to Miss Galindo and Mrs. Forrester. "I was not aware, Miss Galindo," said she, "that young boys had business in such an establishment as this."

But Miss Galindo appeared not to hear, for she and Mrs. Forrester were both staring at Harry Gregson, who stood before them all with his cap in his hands. Miss Pole took a second glance at the boy, looked into his eyes, and at once her expression changed from indignation to shock.

"Harry," said Miss Galindo in a very low voice, as the other ladies stood by, too stunned to utter a word. "Harry, whatever is wrong?"

* * *

Mr. Carter very nearly hated himself for being angry. This was not, after all, a day for scolding, for reproach. The boy had lost his mother, and borne it all so quietly, with very few words and no tears at all. To tell truth, it had frightened him to see Harry like that; it would be much better for the boy if he cried, and even allowed himself to be comforted. After all, however many burdens Harry had assumed, he was still a child.

And Mr. Carter had proof enough of that now that the boy had fled, forcing a search just at the time when so much more needed to be done. Hearne had already set to work making the coffin, but there were still several matters to be resolved at the village church. Mr. Carter could accomplish none of it if he was out looking for Harry.

Mind you, he'd have preferred to spare Harry the harsh finality of making arrangements for his own mother's funeral and burial. If the boy could not escape the pain of his loss, he ought at least to be spared reliving it by speaking with the joiner, the sexton and the rector.

But Mr. Carter couldn't wink at the boy's absence now. Job Gregson was a hard man, for all that he was at this moment consumed with grief, and things would go very badly for Harry if he didn't turn up soon.

And so Mr. Carter set about his search methodically, passing from one place to another, one shop to another, before realizing he was thwarting his own efforts by not seeking out a most obvious ally.

When he arrived at Miss Galindo's shop, he made no move to knock but simply proceeded through the door, removing his hat with one swift motion as he entered. Yes, there was Laurie, and with her Harry, his face now wet with tears.

But that was not all.

"Oh, Mr. Carter!" said Miss Pole, bustling towards him, her cap bobbing, her skirts swishing. She came to him and dropped a curtsy. "Mrs. Forrester and I had fairly resolved to conduct a search of the village, and learn what had become of you. But now, at last, you are here."

* * *

Had he taken command, or had they? He was no longer sure. Within minutes Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole had fairly deluged him with questions, with offers of help, with observations about what was proper and correct.

"I'll go back to Jem Hearne, if you like, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Forrester, "and give him your further instructions."

"That is very kind of you, but it will not be necessary."

"Has someone called at the rectory?" asked Miss Pole.

"I plan to do that directly."

Only Laurie remained her competent if vulnerable self. Was there ever any woman, he thought, with such expressive eyes? He'd seen the look in them when he entered the shop and found her standing with Mrs. Forrester, Miss Pole, and a tearful Harry. Laurie had looked up and met his gaze with such an expression of both relief and sorrow that he wished he'd had a moment alone with her to exchange a few words, to take her in his arms.

But there was, of course, no such opportunity, given the relentless and searching gaze of Miss Pole, and Mrs. Forrester's solicitous but equally relentless inquiries.

There was nothing for it, then, but for each of them to take a task and perform it straightaway. Mrs. Forrester, it was decided, would fetch Harry something to eat from her own kitchen. Miss Pole would scurry home to fill a basket with food and perhaps even flowers for the Gregson family. Mr. Carter must call at the church and see to the arrangements for tomorrow.

In the meantime Harry must rest in Laurie's sitting room while she went to the bookshelf for a Bible or a prayer book -- anything that might contain the text of the 23rd Psalm.

* * *

Mr. Carter had been to see Jem Hearne, and to the rector as well, and even had accepted Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole's offers of assistance this evening. Very nearly everything was in readiness, and very much according to Job Gregson's wishes, but there was one task left to accomplish, and and it was nothing anyone had requested. No, it was a decision Mr. Carter had taken on his own, and would require a discreet visit to the sexton, Mr. Hatch, a man Mr. Carter had never particularly liked.

He'd decided, therefore, to keep his explanations simple. A woman was to be buried on the morrow, he told Hatch, and though arrangements had been made, a single task had been neglected.

"It seems no one remembered to pay the fee to have the bell rung for Bella Gregson, and I wanted to put that right."

Hatch looked back at him with pale, emotionless eyes. "Mr. Carter," he said, "it is well that I am an honest man, for I might have taken your money, rung the bell, and you'd have been none the wiser. But the truth is that someone has already paid the fee.

"I don't know why you should take it upon yourself to do so as well, for I can imagine no reason you might have known a squatter in Hareman's Lane. But I can tell you, Mr. Carter, that Bella Gregson will go to her rest with the tolling of the bell."

"But who would –"

Mr. Carter checked himself. He must not pry.

"I ought not to tell you, but it is such a curious thing that I am tempted to do so. And I know you won't tell tales, Mr. Carter, so I will speak plainly. It's young Mrs. Harrison who asked me to ring the bell, and who paid the fee."

"_Mrs. Harrison?_"

"Aye, the rector's own daughter."

* * *

Edward returned to her doorstep very late indeed that evening, and neither of them made comment about the hour or his obvious weariness. And for all that it seemed almost wrong to behave as lovers on such a night -- indeed, the grievous events of the day seemed to demand austerity -- the greeting they exchanged was an especially tender one.

Of course she did not tell him that when Harry Gregson, red-eyed and weeping, had arrived at her shop, she had been seized with paralyzing fear for his safety. Indeed it seemed quite selfish to talk of such things now; he was well, and it was Harry who faced tremendous grief.

And yet she sensed Edward had very much recognized the relief in her eyes at that moment when he opened the door and saw her standing with the other ladies, and with young Harry. Tonight he'd want to be by her side, if wordlessly, to acknowledge they had _not_ been parted.

It had been a painful evening, though, and Edward was restless, and in no humor for conversation. So she insisted he settle into the sole comfortable armchair in her sitting room while she tended the fire and saw to some refreshment. Privately she thought he was very much in need of sleep, but she'd no desire to send him on his way just yet.

And he was evidently in no haste to go. After a while he turned to her and said, "Would you read to me, Laurie?" he said. "I should so like to hear your voice."

"Of course I shall read to you, Edward. What should you like to hear?"

"Anything you please," he said, his eyes darting about. "Verse will do, " he added, casting a glance her way.

This would require some delicacy, thought Miss Galindo. There were all manner of things that she might have read to him that must prove unsuitable at such a moment, and yet she also wished to avoid choosing anything too severe, or even morbid. His heart was low enough.

She returned to him with several small volumes in her hands. "Edward, would you like me to read from Donne, or perhaps Herbert? Or Vaughan?"

"Whatever you like."

"Very well. Then I shall --"

"Herbert, I think. But not Donne."

"Herbert, then." She settled into the chair close beside him, then spent an anxious moment glancing at titles and first lines.

There. _There._ That was it. Softly she began to read.

"'When God at first made Man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by --'"

"It will be difficult for him," he said suddenly.

She took no offense at the interruption but laid the open book in her lap. "Indeed it will, Edward," she said tenderly. "I cannot imagine what he endures at present, for all that I know what it is to lose a beloved parent. But Harry is fortunate that you --"

"Oh, it will be difficult enough for Harry," said Mr. Carter. "Dear God, it is a hard thing to put on one already so burdened, and so young! But Laurie," he added, "I think you misunderstood me. I was not speaking of Harry just now."

"Not speaking of Harry? Edward, you --"

"I meant Gregson."

* * *

Work was work, he'd told Martha not long ago. But Jem would have rather remained at home that evening, perhaps sitting at the fireside as Martha hummed a lullaby, or Mr. Jenkyns told one of his stories of his time in India.

Jem was the town's joiner, though, and he'd no choice. It was his duty to construct Mrs. Gregson's coffin, and bring it to the family directly.

He had been dreading it, but he hadn't known it would pierce him to the heart to see her, to be confronted with her pale, beautifully formed face, her smooth brow. She ought not to have been lying there, not when she had a brood of children -- young ones, too, and the eldest not even twelve years old. That made him heartsick as he had never been.

When he returned home, Matilda was wailing relentlessly, her little face red, her tiny mouth open in noisy protest. Martha lifted the child from the cradle and held her in her arms for a moment, already too tired to do much but murmur words of comfort to her little daughter. When that had no effect, Jem spoke up, just loudly enough that his voice might be heard over the baby's cries. "Here, let me take her."

"No, not just now, Jem. I think she's hungry." And Martha put the infant to her breast, and all at once restored peace to the household.

"What are you looking at, Jem Hearne?"

"I've never seen anything so beautiful."

"Beautiful! The sight of your daughter, Jem, or is it me?"

"Both. Aye, it's both."

* * *

_To be continued…_

_

* * *

_

**John 14:2: "In my Father's house there are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you."**

**Psalm 23: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters."**

**Miss Galindo selects "The Pulley" by George Herbert to read aloud to Mr. Carter.**


	26. Remember the Ladies

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, adapted from Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **My Lady Ludlow**, and **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**.

This chapter is for Jan, who takes the time to listen _and_ to understand, and brings bucketloads of inspiration back from the U.K.

* * *

"_**I cannot say that I think you are very generous to the ladies, for, while you are proclaiming peace and good will to all men, emancipating all nations, you insist upon retaining absolute power over wives."**_** Abigail Adams, in a letter to her husband, John.**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 26: Remember the Ladies**

"Now then, Jemima, go on."

At that the elder of Job Gregson's two little girls bent down to place a rather battered-looking bunch of wildflowers on the newest of the graves in the churchyard.

"There. That's fine." Job then turned to his eldest son. "Now, Harry," he said. "Read it just as you did before."

Harry opened the book to the place he had marked."'Who can find a virtuous woman?'" he read, his voice soft and solemn, yet clear. "'For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.'"

"'Far above rubies -- all the days of her life,'" murmured his father.

Harry gently and unobtrusively shut the Bible. He didn't think Dada would want to hear the rest of that chapter of Proverbs just then, and be reminded how grandly that virtuous woman had lived. Besides, it was always the part about the rubies that made him think of Mum.

"Are we going now, Dada?" said Malachi after a moment. Harry poked him in the shoulder.

Job Gregson looked at his second-eldest. "You walk on ahead, then," he said softly. "Harry, see to the little ones -- there's a good lad -- and you as well, Malachi. Mind how you go. I'll follow after."

* * *

"Are you sorry that you accompanied me?" asked Edward, breaking the silence they'd shared since they'd departed from Hareman's Lane.

"It was a sad thing to see, Edward, and yet perhaps I needed to know. That is, I understood a little of how Harry lived. But a family of eight in such a place --"

"That's all they had, Laurie. With the enclosure of common land, there was little choice," he said grimly.

"I cannot imagine what it was for Mrs. Gregson to keep house, or to care for her children, or simply to rise each day and face such a prospect."

"With no money, no proper home, and no neighbors," added Edward.

"And now, at last, that will change," said Laurie. "They _will_ have a proper home, and not be so very alone."

"No, not so very alone. Perhaps some good --"

But he broke off before completing the sentence, and so she took it up herself.

"You mean that in tragedy people may prove kind."

"Sometimes," he said simply, looking straight ahead at the road. "And yet it will be difficult," he added after a moment, "even when they are my lady's tenants, even though they now have neighbors, kind neighbors, and Gregson's cousin to help with the housekeeping."

"Yes."

"It will be difficult enough for the children -- well, it will be for the older boys. The little ones do not understand, and I should think the girls too are of an age at which they know little more --"

"Than that Mama has gone."

Edward glanced over at her. "Yes. But Harry -- Harry will feel the loss completely, and intensely."

At that Laurie laid a hand on Edward's arm, and they continued on in silence for a moment.

"Harry said a curious thing to me the other day," she said at last. "He told me he hoped it was true that heaven has many mansions, that his mother might now be in a place as fine as Hanbury Court, with pictures and books and clocks and a soft bed to sleep in.

"But then he pondered that vision for a moment," she added, "and thought to ask me if she needed either beds or clocks now, where she is. I confessed I did not know, but told him that surely she was happy."

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "And then he said that if she'd had rooms like mine, with a little fireplace and windows with glass in them, then she should have been happy."

At that Edward glanced over and saw she was brushing away tears. He spoke not a word but brought the gig to a stop, and for a moment he sat quietly beside her.

"I think, Edward," she continued, "that that should have meant as much to Harry as to his mother."

"I know." He took her hand, somewhat distractedly, and sighed.

She turned to look at him. He appeared not to see anything around him -- not the springtime woods, not the road before them, not even herself -- but had withdrawn into himself, in thought, with his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together.

After a few moments he spoke. "There will come a time when Harry must realize that his father will want to remarry – yes, it is true, for all that it seems too soon to speak of such things. I do not say that out of coldness, Laurie, or in judgment of Job Gregson. Quite the contrary. But however deeply and sincerely he grieves -- and I've no doubt that he does -- the day will come when he takes a wife for himself, and a mother for his children. Indeed he must, and it will be no slight to Bella Gregson's memory."

"And yet – "

"And yet -- ?" he prompted, turning at last to look at her.

"Nothing. It is nothing, Edward."

* * *

"I own I do not know how you are to accomplish it all, Miss Galindo," said Augusta Tomkinson. "Making the coronets for May Day, and preparing for a wedding at the same time, and keeping your shop open besides!"

Miss Galindo, in the midst of wrapping several caps in tissue, gave her client a smile. "It seemed only right that I should help with the May Day pageant, Miss Tomkinson, as I have before. And since this is perhaps the last time I shall be free to do so, I gladly consented to participate."

"Oh, yes, marriage brings new obligations," said Miss Tomkinson. "You need not tell me so, for my dear sister has proven as much."

"Indeed I do not know when I have had so much to think of," said Caroline Goddard. "A home, a husband, and of course the dear little twins." She lowered her eyes. "You will forgive me, Miss Galindo, if I do not attend the meeting tomorrow night."

"Of course, Mrs. Goddard," said Miss Galindo warmly. "And surely your sister will make a full report, as your husband no doubt did following the gentlemen's discussion."

"And yet, Miss Galindo, I had rather hoped to persuade my sister to accompany me tomorrow evening," began Miss Tomkinson.

"Augusta, we have discussed this matter most thoroughly, and you know why I cannot," said her sister in a brittle voice.

"But I had thought you might take an interest in such a subject, as a -- as the stepmother of two young children," said Miss Tomkinson gently. "And you have been so much at home of late. A lively discussion might prove a tonic --"

"Pray do not advise me on my health, Augusta," replied her sister. "Do you not think I have been most careful in that regard?"

"Of course you have," murmured Miss Tomkinson. "I only meant it might rally your spirits if you -- "

"My spirits are best served, Augusta, by remaining quietly at home. I have no need to gad about of an evening as the other ladies do."

"Caroline!"

"Indeed I am sorry you cannot attend, Mrs. Goddard, but I quite understand your obligations," said Miss Galindo diplomatically.

"Shall you accompany your betrothed, Miss Galindo, to the discussion tomorrow?" said Miss Tomkinson, following suit by shifting the focus of conversation.

"Indeed I shall, Miss Tomkinson, though I shall offer no comment during the evening. Mr. Carter has heard his fill of my opinions," added Miss Galindo with a smile. "It is only fitting that the other ladies at last have their turn."

"Oh, have their turn they will, Miss Galindo!" said Miss Tomkinson, with an almost girlish enthusiasm. "And I own that I am looking forward to it as much as anyone. I have a great many questions I wish to ask your Mr. Carter, now that he has announced this most intriguing plan for a school."

* * *

"Are you sorry you accompanied me?"

"I think, Laurie, you can well guess the answer to that question," said Edward, shrugging off his coat. Even in modest candlelight she could see his features had assumed a telltale expression, the crease evident between his brows, the lips pressed firmly together.

"I confess, Edward, I had no notion that the discussion would rouse you to such anger," said Laurentia quietly.

"I am not angry," said Edward.

"You set your lips in that fashion, and I know you are angry!" she said, summoning some of her accustomed pertness, and a gently teasing smile.

"I was not aware that you made a study of my expressions," he said shortly.

"Of this one I must, for I have seen it often enough," she said, a note of irritation at last creeping into her voice

Edward let that comment pass, and Laurie began anew. "I know you had hoped for a better reception," she said softly. "Indeed I had wished the same myself. And yet you can be proud of your efforts this evening."

"Efforts there were -- I'll grant you that -- but of pride there is none!"

"Come now, Edward, that cannot be so," she said soothingly. "You spoke most eloquently, and indeed gave the ladies much to ponder."

"What I gave them, Laurie, was the occasion to raise objections," muttered Edward.

"No," she replied, watching him pace about the room. "I cannot agree with that. Edward, I think you mistake the questions posed by a few for general opposition to your plan."

"Then you must own there were a great many questions, for all that they were put to me only by certain ladies."

"Yes, and that was perhaps owing to the shyness of the many, and the boldness of the few.

"But was it not fitting, Edward, that the ladies had their turn to raise questions and concerns? You did not think it odd when the men did the same. Indeed on that occasion you expressed a degree of respect for Mr. Graves, who evidently saw no need to remain silent."

"And neither, it seems, did Miss Tomkinson."

"Miss Tomkinson's questions, Edward, were entirely sensible," said Laurie. "You cannot fault frank inquiries, or for that matter straightforward curiosity."

"Her curiosity, as you call it, was nigh-insatiable," said Edward wearily. "I did not expect such a cross-examination."

At that Laurie could not suppress a smile. "Indeed," she purred. "Miss Tomkinson ought to have made a remarkable barrister."

"It _was_ rather like being summoned before the constable, or the magistrate."

"Then we must warn Mr. Graves and Sir Charles, lest they find themselves displaced." When that observation failed to raise a smile or even a response, Laurentia continued, more gently, "Edward, I do not believe that Miss Tomkinson is your adversary. Oh, it is true that her manner is at times brusque, and her countenance stern. But beneath that is a generous, even tender spirit. One need only consider her devotion to her sister, and to her stepniece and –nephew. She must indeed take an interest in the school, and might well prove a useful ally, in time."

"Laurie, do you think I mean to delay opening the school until I have won the approbation of the entire community?"

"No, Edward, that was not what I meant. But people _will_ talk, especially when change is afoot. And I need not tell you that in this village notions of progress and education may prove unsettling -- yes, even to well-meaning folk. Oh, Edward, do you not see the value of setting their minds at rest by telling them of your plan, that they might understand it, if not embrace it outright?"

"Good God, Laurie, I have had this school in mind for many a year, long before you and I were acquainted." She flinched at that, but if he saw it, he made no acknowledgment.

"And now, if I am to proceed at all," he continued, "I must do so with only the most grudging acceptance on my lady's part. You will understand if I am not eager to solicit additional advice and counsel, especially when so many in the village seem to prefer gossip to rational discussion."

"That was most unfair," said Laurie softly.

He turned round to look at her. "Forgive me. I did not mean to speak harshly."

"Or unkindly, I suppose! Edward, do you not see that you thwart yourself by such a heedless dismissal of the ladies?" She watched his expression -- his eyes, stern and icy blue in the candlelight, and his lips once more drawn tightly together.

"Indeed you have many friends and allies among them," continued Laurie. "Mrs. Forrester, for one, has only the fondest respect for you. If she did not undertake to serve as your advocate this evening, it was, perhaps, only out of deference while you and the others were engaged in discussion.

"And what of Mrs. Harrison? She spoke most eloquently, indeed passionately, of our obligations to the young, especially those born not to privilege but to want. And she herself has served as teacher, and given lessons to her young brother. I dare say the other ladies are aware of that, and must take her words to heart. "

"Mrs. Harrison, Laurie, is a most admirable young woman, but she is barely out of girlhood, and surely the other ladies are aware of _that_ as well."

"But her father, Edward, is the rector, and her husband one of the local physicians. As a consequence her understanding of matters moral and educational is uncommonly strong, for all that she is young. She must command a certain respect."

"As indeed she does. But that influence has been obtained through her father and husband -- through the men, if I may speak plainly."

A deep flush, evident even in candlelight, covered Laurie's face, and her warm, musical voice seemed at last strained when she spoke again.

"For all that you intend this school of yours for girls as well as boys, I sometimes think, Edward, that you regard the educated woman as a mere novelty, and not a very impressive one at that, much as Dr. Johnson viewed the Quakeress and her preaching."

"That is unfair," said Edward, his eyes glinting. "I have never disparaged the educated woman, or for that matter her command of the language."

"Then why object to lively discussion and debate in which women take part, equally and without apology?" said Laurie, regaining some control over her voice, and almost managing a soothing rather than challenging tone.

"I object to neither discussion nor debate. But it does try my patience, Laurie, that you should set me before a council of women, that they might pass judgment. Indeed I think you are never so well pleased as when you are introducing complications to all my plans."

"That was by no means my intent," she said softly, drawing closer to where he stood by the mantel. "And believe me, Edward, when I say that my regard for you is such that I delight in your success, and grieve at your disappointments."

"I doubt neither your good heart nor your intentions," said Edward. "Though I'd also observe that you take uncommon satisfaction in trouncing me in debate, or believing that you have, and in teasing me."

"I do love teasing you, Edward, but I do so affectionately, and then only when we are alone together --"

"Or with Harry."

"-- or with Harry; I grant you that. As for engaging you in debate, that is another of my honest pleasures. Indeed I should be disappointed if we no longer spoke to each other with frankness, with passion --"

"That is well enough when we are alone together," said Edward. "But consider that on many occasions your strength of feeling does not serve you well."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, Laurie, that passionate belief has more than once blinded you to the consequences of your actions."

"In what way?"

"I will speak plainly," he said, turning to face her. "You were most insistent, Laurie, that fairness demanded that I speak to the ladies very much as I had spoken to the men -- "

"That _was_ only fair --"

"Allow me to finish. I admire your sense of justice, as well as your adherence to principle, but your passionate defense of both meant you evidently gave little thought to the outcome of tonight's meeting."

"Edward, it has only just concluded."

"It has indeed concluded," said Edward, his eyes darting about the room, "and in such a fashion!"

"In the main, the ladies gave you a respectful hearing," said Laurie briskly, "and either made dignified inquiries or proved too shy to do so."

"I do not think anyone would ever deem Mrs. Johnson too shy."

"Mrs. Johnson, Edward, does not want for boldness, and has no notion whatever of tact. That is perhaps owing to her profession. But I have never heard her address _anyone_ in respectful tones. Have you not marked how she speaks to Dr. Harrison, and even Dr. Morgan?"

"She is the wife of our mayor, Laurie. Do you not think she might make things difficult for me?"

"You did not fear to speak frankly to Mr. Johnson, Edward. I cannot believe that Mrs. Johnson should prove more of an obstacle than her husband."

"I would not be so sanguine.

"And then Mrs. Jamieson took up the theme, and made short work of my entire argument for founding the school. Oh, she was most thorough, Laurie, even referring to the notable absence of my lady, and the truth that I cannot even claim the sanction of my own employer."

"But I have great hopes, Edward, that when the other ladies look back on this evening, they shall think only of your sincere --"

"Hopes? You will forgive me if I do not place my trust in your hopes, or in your notions of what is fair and just. Indeed there is very little, Laurie, that is fair and just in this world.

"But I need not remind you of that. There is a freshly dug grave in the churchyard that tells precisely that tale each day, and there's another one besides. You know something of that yourself.

"And there are the cold looks and harsh words and merciless judgments that one encounters in the streets and sitting rooms and at times even in the church itself. But you know something of that as well."

She flinched again, quite as if he had delivered a slap with his own hand, but she remained silent. He saw the look in her eyes, though, and opened his mouth to speak further, then evidently thought the better of it.

She too made no comment, but reached over to the mantel and picked up the candle standing there. For a moment she stood holding it, gazing at it, as if considering some plan.

Then she looked up at him. "Perhaps it is time," she said vaguely. Her voice was soft, her eyes sorrowful rather than angry.

She glided towards the door of the room, the candle lighting her way, and after a moment he followed her out of the room and into the hallway. She bustled unobtrusively ahead of him and opened the outer door while he collected hat and coat.

At the end of the hallway he turned to her. She said nothing further but was looking at him steadily with those eyes.

He looked down at her and saw that her lips were trembling, and so were her hands.

"Laurie." He bowed his head, pressed his own lips firmly together, and said nothing more. After another slight nod he strode out the door. She shut it behind him, leaving him without – unkissed, uncomprehending, and utterly undone.

* * *

He had made his best effort, Edward decided, and yet disquiet – no, _guilt_ – had continued to torment him after his conversation with Laurie the other evening. Oh, he still believed she had been in the wrong, or at least misguided. He had indulged her little plan, and it had gone very badly indeed, though now her pride would not permit her to admit as much.

Dear God, he wished he might regain the past few days and take another course of action. He'd have persuaded her to allow him to proceed with his plans, and be spared the thousand questions and observations and disapproving looks of the women of the village. He winced at so much as the thought of Mrs. Johnson and her pinched, disdainful face, and her clipped pronouncements about the Irish and the ruin they'd bring to town. And Mrs. Jamieson, for all her veneer of graciousness and privilege, had been infinitely worse. No, he'd have gladly avoided the two of them altogether.

Perhaps he might even have done without the memory of Mrs. Gordon and her earnest gaze, or Mrs. Forrester's rapt expression, or the soft smiles of Miss Matty Jenkyns and her young companion, Miss Smith. And the gentle Mrs. Harrison, speaking in measured tones, no doubt thinking of that insatiable churchyard herself, and how soon it would claim them all -- perhaps he'd like to forget her as well.

But most of all he could not forget the expression on Laurie's face as he had left her that evening. For the thousandth time he wished he'd begged to remain with her a little longer, that he might explain all -- that he understood she'd made friends among the ladies in Cranford, and had perhaps believed they would rally in support of his efforts, that it was cruel that she had been disappointed of those hopes.

And he'd have said more, much more. He'd have told her that however great a fool he'd made of himself that evening, it was nothing compared with the hurt he had caused her.

Dear Laurie! He must go to her, and soon, and he would not go empty-handed. He'd buy her flowers, and this time he'd choose something especially beautiful, something that reminded her that she was cherished.

At that he wondered if he must spend the rest of his life buying her books of verse and bouquets of flowers. Well, if he did, so be it. They'd not had much of a courtship, and in recent years she'd not had much pleasure in her life – and nor, for that matter, had he. But he'd found it exhilarating to call upon her, to plan small presents and surprises, to think of the time they'd spend together and everything they might do, and then to have those precious hours when he could say very nearly anything he liked and find her willing to listen.

So he'd woo her, even if he'd already won her. He'd bring her flowers. She'd like that, and would no doubt prove receptive to his explanations, his apologies, and his touch. Yes, at length he'd take her in his arms, comfort and caress her, offer her every assurance of his regard.

That is, if only she would so much as open the door to him!

* * *

He was mentally weighing the merits of roses against those of tulips and had very nearly reached the doorstep of Mrs. Rhys's shop when he spied Miss Matty Jenkyns and Mary Smith, walking arm in arm, out of the corner of his eye. He liked both ladies very much indeed, not only for their kindness but their intelligence, yet he was in no humor to engage them in conversation this afternoon, not after the spectacle of the other evening. Escape, however, was impossible, as Miss Matty had seen him and indeed smiled in recognition.

Well, once more unto the breach.

"Good day to you, Mr. Carter," said Miss Matty in her husky voice. Miss Smith smiled and inclined her head as she curtsied to Mr. Carter, and he doffed his hat and bowed slightly.

"Miss Smith, Mr. Carter, has been telling my brother of our meeting the other night," said Miss Matty. "And Peter has been quite fascinated by the account dear Mary has provided."

"Indeed." Mr. Carter felt an uncomfortable blush spreading across his face.

"But of course my brother is not the only one to have taken a lively interest in your plan for the school. The neighbors have talked of little else for days."

At that Mr. Carter made no reply but felt his heart sinking ever lower. He was not comforted by the almost mischievous look that was now appearing in Miss Matty's eyes, or by the smile stealing across her lips.

"It would appear, Mr. Carter," she continued, "that you have at length become the hero of the village."

Miss Smith took up the theme. "Not many men, Mr. Carter, would have made a formal presentation to the ladies and indeed solicited their opinions concerning such an important project. We all know that you might have proceeded without a thought for anyone else's wishes, for that was only your right, as benefactor and founder.

"But you have chosen a more difficult course, indeed a more honorable one. I hope it may prove more rewarding than vexing."

"More rewarding than vexing," echoed Mr. Carter. "Yes."

"Indeed, Mr. Carter," said Miss Matty warmly, "we are all conscious of the respect you have shown us by presenting your plan beforehand. I confess I wish Sir Charles and Captain Brown had followed a similar course before construction of the railway proceeded."

"Perhaps you were not aware, Mr. Carter," said Miss Smith, smiling, "of the tremendous agitation that resulted when the ladies chanced to hear that the railway was to come to Cranford."

"But the plan was formed in such secrecy," said Miss Matty, frowning. "Indeed if Miss Pole and Mrs. Forrester had not overheard Sir Charles tell Miss Galindo of his own part in the scheme, we should have all remained wholly ignorant." She turned to Mr. Carter and added, in an indignant whisper, "And Captain Brown had been engaged to assist him, but had not so much as breathed a word of it to his own daughter!"

"Change is not always well received, Mr. Carter," added Miss Smith, "even when it must prove advantageous to the community."

"But how are we to learn whether something is advantageous or not if the men refuse to discuss it with us?" asked Miss Matty. "It is most vexing.

"But we shall make no such complaint against_ you_, Mr. Carter," added Miss Matty, turning to him. "And I am certain that your school will be most welcome.

"Did you know, Mr. Carter, that it was once put to_ me_ that I should open a school? Fancy, such a notion!" she added with a husky chuckle. "I do not speak French, nor do I understand much of mathematics or science or geography." And here Miss Smith exchanged a glance, as well as a gentle smile, with Mr. Carter.

"As you can well imagine," continued Miss Matty, "such a school should never have been equal to the grand project you are now commencing, Mr. Carter.

"Things were so very different when I was a girl. Deborah and I remained at home, and my father undertook to teach us both, and my brother as well, though Peter was also sent away to school at Shrewsbury, of course, at least for a time.

"But we cannot be assured, though, Mr. Carter, that every child enjoys such devoted attention from a parent," said Miss Matty earnestly, "and so your school must open its doors. I hope it may be soon.

"Perhaps I can assist you in some way – unwaged, of course," added Miss Matty, delicately dropping her voice to a whisper. "I've no accomplishments myself, but I could help the little ones learn their letters and numbers, or assist the elder ones with their recitations."

"That is very kind of you, Miss Matty."

"And permit me to offer you my good wishes as well, Mr. Carter, and indeed my help, if you will accept it," added Miss Smith. "We do so want to see this plan succeed."

"Indeed we do," said Miss Matty. She gave another little chuckle. "After all, as Miss Pole has observed, we would not like to be called backward here!"

* * *

_To be continued…_

_

* * *

_

**Note on Laurie's reference to Dr. Johnson:**

_**"Sir, a woman preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all."**_** Samuel Johnson**


	27. The Honest Warmth of a Manly Heart

**Special Note to Readers: I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the breaks/scene changes in my stories haven't been showing up, and I have been going through the work of the past months and years to make the necessary adjustments. **

**This has fairly reduced me to tears, especially since I've been accused of providing no line breaks at all, and reposting all the chapters is taking up time I wanted to use to write and revise upcoming work.**

**Many, many thanks to ChocolateIsMyDrug for first pointing out the asterisk-deletion problem on this site.**

* * *

The following was inspired by the wonderful screenplay and brilliant performances in the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell. The title of this chapter is a quotation from **Cranford**.

This is another of those sections that took a very different turn from what I'd expected. The characters _do_ take on a life of their own.

Please feel free to share your thoughts, and thanks to all who have been following the story faithfully. The next two chapters will be in a very different mood, I assure you!

* * *

**Chapter 27: The Honest Warmth of a Manly Heart**

This would take considerable thought.

Until a few moments ago Edward had believed it all should prove quite simple, that the only obstacles between him and Laurie would be pride and stubbornness -- and her anger, of course -- and that his explanations, followed by some tender words, might put everything right.

At this moment, though, minutes after he'd bade farewell to Miss Matty and Miss Smith, all his former plans seemed wrongheaded, indeed unkind.

He must form a new course of action, but he was not about to attempt that while standing in the street. He must seek a refuge, someplace suitable for peaceful and private reflection.

Strange, wasn't it, that a bridegroom would choose to come here, to linger among the headstones, among the dead, really, to puzzle out a problem with the living!

But it was fitting. Here no one could judge or interrupt him, and if there were reminders all about of lost opportunities, and how quickly the glass of time ran out, there was as well a gentle silence that should allow him to form his thoughts and at length his words.

As for his companions, well, he must not slight them.

There was a newly dug grave, of course; that was something Edward could not forget. The very sight of it touched his heart, and all the more for its being adorned only with a few rapidly withering wildflowers. He paused, respectfully inclined his head, and made a short prayer, more for Harry, his father, and all the little Gregsons than for Bella herself. Surely her soul did not require his prayers, and the gates of heaven had swung wide for her when she'd approached. _They'd_ not shut her out, not there.

Edward wondered what she'd have made of his standing, head bowed, at her grave, barely a few weeks after they'd last discussed Harry's prospects. Surely none of them -- not Bella, not Job, and certainly not Edward -- could have foreseen such a thing.

He walked on, coming to the place where young Walter Hutton lay, and stopped briefly to read the sentimental inscription on the headstone. An angel, they called him. Edward wondered again at how the living stubbornly placed the most ordinary people among the saints and angels, rendering all earthly defects of character inconsequential or indeed endearing in the light of eternity. But of course it was grief that did that, and he didn't doubt that the Huttons would give a great deal to have one more day with Walter, angelic or no.

He continued on, glancing at the tombstones as he passed them.

_Margaret Hutton..._

_Elizabeth Goddard..._

_Charles Tomkinson..._

_Amelia Tomkinson..._

_Deborah Jenkyns..._

_The Reverend John Jenkyns..._

_Mary Jenkyns..._

_Major William Forrester..._

He was drawing ever nearer to the place he knew he must go.

* * *

_Katherine_

_Beloved wife of Edward Carter_

_"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"_

It was a restful spot, he thought, this little piece of earth beneath the trees. He'd come here often enough that first year he'd been alone, to do little more than think, and occasionally pray, though at times the words would not come, and he'd stood here in silence.

In the years that followed he'd come much less frequently, for there always seemed to be some business or other on the estate to engage him. And in the evenings wakefulness no longer troubled him, and he was able to sleep then, to sleep and forget that he was alone.

_Katherine_

_Beloved wife of Edward Carter_

_"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"_

He still wasn't sure about the verse, but at the time he had very much wanted some suggestion that he was not so irrevocably parted from Katherine, that she remained near. They'd had so few years together, and those had gone by quickly enough.

As for the years since, why, they too had passed in a trice, and he'd grown ever more solitary, and squandered his days. Waste was a sin, he had once told Harry, and yet the temptation to waste his life had been very great indeed. Oh, there had been work enough -- indeed, there was little else, once Katherine had died -- but that was all that consumed him, and that was not enough.

The single touch of grace within his existence had been devotion to his lady, who, if anything, suffered a more pronounced solitude than his own. He, after all, mourned one woman who would never return, whereas she grieved not only for a husband but six children, and waited in vain for the one child who had remained to her.

Yet he did not come.

A child. Perhaps if he and Katherine had not been disappointed of children, he should have not locked and barred the door of his own heart so decidedly, or proved so solitary.

And yet at last it _had_ been a child -- and women as well! -- who had put an end to his former existence. Everything had been irrevocably altered that summer day in the marketplace at Cranford, and by the good offices of Miss Pole, of all people. Harry Gregson had appeared within the crowd to sell some brown trout, no doubt poached from one of his lady's streams, and Miss Pole had pounced on the boy then and there. She'd dragged Harry before him, as though she were the constable and he, Edward, the magistrate, and denounced the lad as "half gipsy and whole villain."

Miss Pole had been swift in her arrest and merciless in her judgment, and yet this time, at least, her meddling had produced nothing but good. That single moment of humiliation in the marketplace had brought the boy to Edward for the first but not the last time, and at length their fates should become intertwined, and wariness give way to trust, and something like friendship.

He had thought he'd locked and barred the door of his heart to everyone, very nearly even to his lady -- and she of course was safely formal, mercifully distant -- and yet Harry had discovered it unguarded, and with innocence and not a little impertinence had provoked Edward into helping him. Yet which of them had rescued the other? It was no longer clear.

And even then the mischief was not done, not entirely, and for that he must lay the blame at Lady Ludlow's door. She too had intervened in fate, much as Miss Pole had, and perhaps with equally questionable motives. Unable to sanction his decision to teach Harry to read and write, as well as to make the boy his clerk, she'd installed Miss Galindo as his assistant, whether Edward would or no.

He closed his eyes and thought again of the day Lady Ludlow came to his office with Miss Galindo, their perverse cheerfulness infuriating him nearly as much as the intrusion itself. How vexing it was that Lady Ludlow should not only interfere in his plans, but involve Miss Galindo as well -- Miss Galindo, with her cool dignity, provocative opinions, and distracting brown eyes. How was he to accomplish anything with such a person underfoot?

And yet she had remained, like Harry, and was ever after not to be dislodged from his life.

He ought to have known it had been all up with him from the very first. He ought to have known he was no match for any of them.

It was only fitting that one should weep in such a place, surrounded by every reminder of loss and disappointment and despair. And yet Edward stood smiling in the churchyard, thinking of how odd a path his life had taken, how little of it he had understood before now, and how, truth to tell, he regretted none of it. He'd not been able to fend them all off -- not his lady, not Harry, not the people of Cranford, and certainly not Laurie.

He wondered what Katherine should have made of it all, and at once he knew that she should have smiled -- no, _laughed_, but kindly, affectionately -- to see him in such a state, to see him fretting about what apology he should make to Laurie after his temper, and his damnable impatience, had once more gotten the better of him.

Yes, he could hear Katherine laughing, and if he listened very closely, he could hear her speaking as well...

_Go on with you, then, Edward. Go on with you_.

The tears had come at last, and yet he was still smiling, smiling as he left the churchyard, and returned to life.

* * *

Oh, why had she again consented to fashion the May Day coronets, especially now, when she must also see to wedding preparations? It had been madness.

Still, working with the hands at least gave Laurentia time to think, though perhaps too much time. The mind proved mischievous on such occasions, and she would find herself unable to escape unbidden thoughts, the memory of an unpleasant exchange, and perhaps even a guilty conscience.

Indeed she had been reasoning with herself all morning. It was foolishness, she thought, to indulge these unpleasant twinges of doubt. She had meant well -- no, _she had_ _been in the right_ -- to persuade Edward to speak to the women the other night, despite his reluctance and despite the hardheartedness and hardheadedness of several of the participants.

But it lay on her conscience that she had sent him away in silence, without so much as a reassuring word or touch. It wasn't just that they ordinarily took leave of each other with such tenderness. It was that they had come so near -- very near indeed -- to taking leave of each other forever. Whenever she shut her eyes, she could see him as he was that day in Dr. Harrison's surgery, broken and bleeding and scarred. She felt again his hand beneath hers, and saw his eyes, so filled with longing, turned upon her face.

She could never think of that moment without tears, now as cleansing as they were painful.

And the thought had brought her to a resolution: This time she should be the one to offer peace. If they might not escape quarrels, at least she should be strong enough to master her temper, and grateful enough to embrace her stubborn, infuriating, endlessly precious Edward.

She thought again of Isobel Morgan's counsel that a wife must practice patience and humility, and seek to see things through her husband's eyes.

Seeing things through Edward's perspective was not at this moment a particularly appealing prospect; indeed she wished very much to declare herself in the right, him in the wrong, and hear him most humbly beg pardon!

Yet she must attempt the experiment. She'd always thought herself equal to challenges of the will, intellect, and imagination -- writing poetry, for example, or drawing a picture, or perhaps creating a bonnet for a client. Indeed there was no time she so needed to draw upon patience and sheer will as when a lady sat before the looking glass, fretting and fidgeting and dithering over bonnets and caps. Edward might not be flattered to be compared to the some of the clients who visited her shop, and yet he should require quite as much patience.

Perhaps more.

* * *

What had he thought and dreamed in those years before she had known him? She'd never really thought to ask him, and now she might dare to -- that is, if he was even speaking to her now. She must try.

And she_ did_ know one of the dreams, at least -- this school that was gradually taking form. How difficult it must have been to lay that cherished plan first before the men, then the ladies -- a terrifying prospect, when she stopped to consider it. Indeed it at times required effort enough for him to give ear to her own opinions and wishes, quite apart from any demands placed on him by his mistress, and at least both she and Lady Ludlow held him in high regard, however often they tried his patience.

Perhaps it had been too much, then, to expect Edward to face a small army of ladies with equanimity. Poor man!

And so he might require comforting, when next she saw him, and not a lecture. She did not expect open penitence, even if he believed himself in the wrong. Apologies did not come easily to Edward, and perhaps only a look, a touch, a handful of flowers must suffice when he did come seeking a truce.

Indeed she smiled at the memory of the first time he'd come to see her. He'd arrived looking slightly ashamed, and clutching a bouquet as a peace offering, and yet she had been the one to speak first, to explain her own misguided actions, and he'd responded with warmth, and they'd been friends again.

Then she remembered with shock that there _had_ been a time when she had heard Edward utter words of apology -- but to Lady Ludlow, who had come offering assistance when he was taken to Dr. Harrison's surgery. On that occasion it had been his lady who had made the first gesture of good will. Laurie could still hear the reply Edward had given: "We spoke in anger to each other. I am sorry."

The tears had come once again to her eyes. If Lady Ludlow had succeeded in tempering her own pride and offering the olive branch, then on this occasion Laurie must do the same. After all, what did any quarrel matter, when they were together and would soon --

The door to her shop was opening, as if by itself. She knew at once that it would be Edward, and there he was, peace offering in hand, and not the least sign of anger in his eyes. Indeed he looked like a boy who had been caught out. He was so -- he was so --

She rose up from her chair.

* * *

It was much as it had been before. She was in a dress of a sober brown -- perhaps even the same dress she'd worn the previous spring when he'd come to see her -- and had on one of those white aprons evidently necessary whenever she was going about her work.

He stood before her with his bouquet of red tulips, feeling no less awkward than he had done that other time. By now he had meant to have something fine and eloquent to say to her, and yet as he stood there, all the thoughts and words he'd carefully collected departed from his mind.

She had risen from her chair and was looking up at him now with her sad brown eyes, eyes with no anger in them at all, and she was saying, "Oh, Edward, I have all this day been thinking of you!"

And with that she came swiftly to him.

* * *

"Laurie, I am sorry."

"Please, Edward. You need not say anything more."

"Evidently you are determined that I shall not!"

"That was not what I meant, Edward."

"No?"

"I was just so pleased to see you."

"I see."

"It was dreadfully bold of me."

"It _was_ bold, but by no means dreadful."

"I hope I did not shock you."

"I confess I was startled, but also pleased, especially since I did not think you would so much as open the door to me."

"Speaking of which, did you lock the door, Edward?"

"Oh, yes."

"I know we are to be married soon, and that there's no shame in sitting here with you. Yet there are some things I wish to keep from prying eyes."

"Such as the blush in your cheeks at this moment."

"Am I blushing?"

"Oh, yes, and it suits you, Laurie."

"But I'd best stand up now."

"Why? Why must you?"

"This seat, Edward, was intended for a lady to use when she is before the looking-glass. If I remain on your knee and the chair gives way, you will tumble to the floor, and I with you!"

"You say that as though it were a bad thing."

* * *

"Oh, Edward, your bouquet," said Laurie tenderly, picking up his tulips. "I really must place these in water, before they come to any more mischief." Her hands full of flowers, she looked up at him. "Will you take some tea? Might you stay that long?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"I do."

* * *

This time, he was determined to speak first, if casually.

"I meant to see you earlier, Laurie," he began, "but I was delayed."

"Indeed. There's no trouble, I hope," she said, looking up from the tea service.

"Not at all," he said warmly, smiling. "I chanced to meet Miss Matty and Miss Smith outside Mrs. Rhys's shop, and we had a pleasant discussion -- about the school." He paused, summoning determination. "It seems they are quite intent on assisting me by what means they have."

At that she smiled softly back at him. "Miss Matty is the very soul of kindness, Edward."

"She is indeed, and so is her young companion. I confess myself quite humbled by the generosity of the ladies."

A decidedly sly looked had entered Laurie's eyes, but her voice was gentle enough when next she spoke. "There is no need, Edward," she said, "to talk of humbling."

"No? And yet I own I was hasty in my judgments, and most ungenerous to you. It _was_ only fair that I put the plan before the ladies, and allow them to offer questions and opinions."

"And yet after planning such a project so long, and very nearly in solitude, scrutiny of that sort you faced must seem akin to violence!"

"Perhaps 'violence' is too strong a word, Laurie; there were but few harsh words. I own I did not like some of the questions put to me, though. You know I like to have things my own way."

"We _all_ dearly love to have things our own way, and I say that not only for myself and of course for you, but Lady Ludlow as well. And there you have very little choice. I am mindful of that, and what it costs you in grief and in disappointment.

"But I am also mindful that if you have a duty to my lady, the same cannot be said of the women in town. I know well it required effort for you to give them a respectful hearing." The teasing look again entered her eyes as she added, "And I know the society of ladies, with all their gossip and opinions, can prove most unsettling to you."

"It may also prove uncommonly pleasing -- so pleasing that I have sought the Reverend Hutton's assistance to ensure that I might enjoy the near-constant society of a particular lady."

"And yet I recall a time when my presence did not please you," said Laurie, with sudden seriousness. Then, rising to playfulness once more, she added, "Your expression was remarkably fierce on the day when Lady Ludlow marched me into the very heart of your kingdom."

"And as your countenance was so provokingly cheerful, I know I did not succeed in frightening you."

"No indeed!"

"And I hope," added Edward softly, "that at length you found me a gentle enough master."

"So much so," she said softly, "that shortly I shall vow to serve and obey you."

"And not merely as my clerk," added Edward, with a little smile.

"And not merely as your clerk," she echoed. All at once her seriousness returned, and she added, "Indeed I must promise to serve and obey you, and that I will do, with all my heart. And yet I do not believe obedience requires that I keep silent."

He chuckled. "I would never expect you to keep silent!"

To his surprise, she did not laugh. "I am in earnest, Edward. It is your right to be lord and master in your own home, and I acknowledge that. And yet I do not believe a wife is like a child, to be cosseted and corrected by turns. I am not your daughter, Edward, nor am I a nun taking vows –"

"I think, Laurie, that I might safely promise you that you will never live as a nun --"

"Please, Edward. I am not teasing now."

"No," he said evenly, looking directly into her eyes.

"I should like to think that you might always speak with me as an equal, confiding in me, seeking my opinion in all things."

"Laurie," he said, feeling his patience gradually giving way, "do you not trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," she said simply. "It is only that I fear you face a very real temptation to humor me, rather than give serious thought to my opinions. And note well," she added, "that I say 'give serious thought.' I do not expect to command you!"

"Nor I you," said Edward gravely. "But I had hoped you might place your trust in me, confiding in me quite as much as I do you."

"I will, Edward. I promise you that," she said, her eyes filling with tears. They sat for a moment, neither meeting the other's gaze, both of them awkwardly clinging to their teacups, and then she looked up at him again, the tears shining in her eyes once more.

"There are times, Edward, when I wish that we had become acquainted when I was a girl of seventeen. Then you should have known my parents."

"I should have liked that."

"Indeed I suspect you and my father should have been great friends.

"But I also confess, Edward, that when I was seventeen, I should not have understood your worth. Pray do not take offense," she added, smiling. "Indeed there was very little I understood then, for all that I believed myself uncommonly well acquainted with the wider world."

He returned the smile. "I was a rather rough lad at seventeen myself, though by the time I was five and twenty I too thought myself quite a man of the world, all for having served as clerk to an attorney and lived in the great city of Birmingham! It was strange to come home several years later and discover that for once people were interested in my opinions and almost any report I had of what lay beyond Hanbury. Humph! I'd read a few books and could discuss the weather with the attorney's wife and daughter; that was all.

"But I did value gaining Katherine's good opinion -- you do not mind that I talk again of Katherine?"

At that Laurie gave him a smile of tremendous sweetness. "That is another reason why I ought to harbor no regrets about making your acquaintance so lately. You should not have been the man you are today, had you not wed Katherine. Of course I have no objection to your speaking of her."

"I am glad of that. I had feared it would be very wrong of me to do so when our wedding day is so near.

"Well, I returned home, and applied to Mr. Bolton, and of course met his daughter as well, and wanted her good opinion quite as much as his." He gave a little chuckle. "She was rather shy at first, and thought me uncommonly clever, perhaps too clever for her. Can you imagine that? But I was just a lad who'd gone to the city, after all, and at length she saw that -- and married me anyway." He chuckled again.

"Fortunate girl," said Laurie softly.

"Hm. I do not know that she was fortunate, though I was!" He sighed. "And of course I was lost without her -- lost and very alone."

"Edward," said Laurie softly, reaching for his hand, "I hope you may safely say that now you are neither."

* * *

"It is well, Mr. Carter, that May will prove quite a festive month," said Lady Ludlow to Mr. Carter as they gazed across the lawn at Hanbury. "With no garden party for yet another year, I should soon stand accused of uncharacteristic austerity, save, of course, for the Twelfth Night observations." She turned to him and smiled. "But surely your wedding will bring joy such as Hanbury has not known for many a year."

"My lady, it is entirely owing to your kindness," began Mr. Carter.

Her ladyship feigned shock. "_My_ kindness?" she said, eyebrows raised. "And to think I believed you might be content to wed Laurentia before as few witnesses as possible, and without greater finery than might be glimpsed on a working day. I had thought there was joy enough in your union without a wedding breakfast at Hanbury Court."

When Mr. Carter, blushing, could make no reply, Lady Ludlow smiled once more and said, "You must forgive me, Mr. Carter, if I respond with levity to any of your attempts to thank me. The prospect of such a celebration has made me quite lighthearted."

"My lady, I am glad of that, and I am as grateful for your hospitality as for your kindness."

"It is the least that I might do, Mr. Carter, as Laurentia is so dear to me," said Lady Ludlow, again looking across the grounds of the estate. "Though I will claim my prerogative as her friend and say again how much I regret that you are not taking her away following the wedding."

"My lady, you will understand that together we have resolved to settle the arrangements for the school, even as we begin our marriage."

Lady Ludlow turned to face Mr. Carter and saw once more that telltale crease in his brow, the near-pout his lips had assumed.

"Pray do not fear to speak of the school in my presence, Mr. Carter," she said coolly. "I take no offense."

"Forgive me, my lady --"

"And I would note," she added, "that I am well aware of how pliant Laurentia can be, how eager to please."

At that he actually smiled. Oh, his lady knew Laurie very well indeed -- in all things, that is, but her tremendous will, her remarkable obstinacy.

"You will note, Mr. Carter, that I did not claim she was docile. Yes, I saw you smile.

"I am only saying that she wishes very much to please you. I dare say Laurentia knows her duty, as well as what she is promising to you. And yet have a care, Mr. Carter. For all that she has agreed to forgo a wedding trip, and is not accustomed to being made much of, she _is_ a bride. Pray do not forget that."

"My lady, I promise you that in everything I will be as mindful of her happiness as her welfare. She will want for nothing. I vow as much to you."

Lady Ludlow smiled wistfully. "Mr. Carter, I know you for an honorable man, a man with the kindest and best intentions, and yet you have not understood me. Every man, no matter how devoted to duty, must have rest from his labors, and a bridegroom especially ought to have leisure to enjoy the society of his bride.

"But I will speak no more of your taking a holiday," she added. "The time will come, at length."

"Thank you, my lady."

Lady Ludlow gazed again across the lawn before her. "It is good that we have the tents we were wont to use for the garden parties," she said, "for there may be rain on your wedding day." She turned again to look at her estate manager. "I am not superstitious, Mr. Carter, merely practical."

"Indeed if there is rain on the day itself, we ought to regard it as a blessing from heaven," said Mr. Carter, frowning, "for we have lacked rain enough for the orchards and fields, first in March and now in April."

* * *

"I do hope there's no trouble at home, Mary!"

Miss Smith, spectacles perched on her nose, looked up from the letter she'd been reading. "Pray feel no alarm at my sighing, Miss Matty. Indeed there is nothing wrong. It is just that Mama has announced that if there is again to be no garden party at Hanbury this summer, why, then she must of course attend the May Day festivities in Cranford instead."

"Oh, indeed?" said Miss Matty. "Will your father accompany her?"

"I fear not, Miss Matty," said Mary, looking down again at her letter, "though the children of course will do so."

"Oh, all five will join her in the carriage?" asked Miss Matty brightly.

"Six," said Mary.

"Six?" echoed Miss Matty, an expression of shock on her face, for hadn't there been but five the previous summer?

"Six," repeated Mary. "Rachel was born last October, Miss Matty.

"But I do wish Papa would accompany her," she said. "There are times, Miss Matty, when I do worry very much that the demands of his profession are making him unwell, and that he would be better served by taking some leisure.

"He remains quite vexed by headaches -- though you know that he wears spectacles, as I do now -- and by his various other pains. It worries Mama, and I confess myself troubled by it as well."

"Then perhaps your stepmother will persuade him to take a holiday," said Miss Matty optimistically.

"You will forgive me, Miss Matty, if I do not regard that as very likely! Papa has been known to prove rather stubborn, despite Mama's entreaties and my own. "

"Well, then," said Miss Matty softly, "I expect we shall have better success with Martha. I had thought, Mary, to persuade her to take little Matilda for an airing on May Day. Indeed I may be of assistance there, and leave Martha at leisure to enjoy the pageant."

"I would gladly help there as well, Miss Matty, though I think that Mama will keep me quite occupied with the little ones."

"Oh, indeed, especially when all five -- _six_ of them are coming."

* * *

"The post has come, Frank," said Sophy Harrison, stepping into the doorway of her husband's study.

"Thank you, my love," said Dr. Harrison distractedly. "Is there anything of note?" The words were barely out of his mouth when his wife held an envelope before his eyes -- an envelope with a telltale blotchy script upon it.

He looked up at Sophy. "I expected as much." Unsealing the letter, he began to read.

_Dear Frank,_

_We've become very respectable, you and I, exchanging letters of this sort. We always knew the time would come, didn't we? _

_Well, then, I shall act the part of young Dr. John Marshland and report that Mrs. Sheehan, whom I shall send to you in Cranford this Monday, has done faithful service this last year at the Manchester Infirmary, and that I recommend her most wholeheartedly as a diligent worker, and I say that not only because she is my countrywoman. No, Mrs. Sheehan (whom everyone calls Bridey) has proven uncommonly patient and reliable, as well as kindhearted. _

_She has no family of her own here in Manchester. Indeed she has recently suffered a great loss in that regard, and so would start afresh in a quiet village such as your own. I do not doubt that she will do very well in the temporary situation your good father-in-law has offered, though in time you will perhaps covet her services yourself, and for an establishment by no means as quiet as the rectory. Mrs. Sheehan performs cleaning and mending but might also be called upon to serve as a nurse, for the sick and perhaps especially for the little ones, for I've found few women so fond of children._

_Indeed if you do not neglect the young Mrs. Harrison, perhaps you will soon have need enough of a nursemaid. I ought not to write that, it is most indiscreet, but I would tell a lie if I said the bachelors among us are not watching with interest to see if you serve as a proper example. Do not disappoint us, Frank._

_I hope it will not be long before I once again slip the bonds of Manchester and ride the twelve miles to see how you all get on, and to call upon my other acquaintance in town. You know how it is. _

_As always,_

_Jack_

_

* * *

_

_To be continued…_


	28. Each with His Bonny Lass

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, based on **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by the Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell.

I've borrowed the characters from the series (much less so from the books!) and let my imagination run riot. This is particularly true with my conceptions of Miss Laurentia Galindo and Dr. Jack Marshland.

As always, I'm eager for your reviews and comments. Many thanks to all who are following this story, which is very nearly synchronizing with the actual seasons, and you know what that means: holidays and parties, much in the spirit of chapters 10 and 14.

* * *

**Chapter 28: Each with His Bonny Lass**

"Are you contemplating a trip to Manchester, Laurie, or perhaps one as far as Germany? I cannot imagine any other reason you should carry so many things with you," said Edward, lifting yet another bag onto the trap.

"That is only my sketchbook and some pencils and crayons, Edward," said Laurie.

"Sketchbook and pencils?"

"I mean to do just as you bade me, and enjoy the day, once I have finished my duties with the pageant. It has been a great while since I have had the leisure for drawing, and today affords a most colorful occasion, as well as remarkable subjects, though I dare say portraits ought to present a challenge, as I've not sketched anything, let alone _anyone_, in a great while."

"You are not going to sketch me." It was unclear whether it was a question, a command, or a statement.

"Only if you wish me to, Edward," she said with the touch of a smile, a lift of her eyebrows. "Though I do not think I could do justice to your eyes," she added affectionately. "With practice, perhaps I should succeed in rendering them as they truly are."

"I wish that someone would draw or paint _you_ as you truly are, especially at this moment."

"When I am in this dress and bonnet, and have had but a few hours' sleep?" she said, with a wry smile.

"Yes, just as you are now, in that dress, in the morning light."

She paused right by the trap and turned to look at him again. "Truly?"

"Oh, yes.

"When we've been apart," he continued, "I've often imagined what you are doing, how you should look, but I'd have liked to have had your image with me as well, especially when I was traveling."

For once he'd said something that had made her entirely speechless, and he was fully convinced she'd have kissed him then and there if they hadn't been in the street.

Well, not speechless for long. "I too like very much to study your face, Edward, and remember it when we are apart. I've often conjured the image of you at your desk, and the expressions you wear at such times," she added, smiling, "and of course the sight of you striding across the lawn at Hanbury. That is how I like to think of you.

"But truly we have seen each other in all weathers, lights, and circumstances, perhaps more often than many a husband and wife!"

"No, not in all circumstances, and not completely as husband and wife, not until I bring you home on our wedding day. And we shall not be parted then," he said softly.

"No, truly not," she said, blushing as he gently took her hand and helped her up onto the trap.

A bit awkwardly he climbed up beside her. "Well, then, let us properly observe May Day," he said, giving her a smile. "The first of many May Days, God willing."

"The first?" She looked back at him with her eyebrows raised once more. "But we stood side by side on this day last year!"

"Did we?"

"Indeed we did. Do you not recall how we watched together -- I a bit anxiously, I confess -- as Harry played his part in the pageant?"

"On that day I was anxious for Harry as well, but for a different reason." He sighed. "Indeed I was anxious about a great many things then."

Laurie laid her hand on his. "And so you are still."

"And you are as well, staying up half the night to prepare May Day finery!" He peered at her from underneath his hat brim and found her smiling, if a little sleepily. "Well, let's be off, then, and see what the day holds."

* * *

The blue dress was not new, and neither was the little straw bonnet, and yet Sophy Harrison took as much care with both as if she'd brought them back from a recent shopping trip to Manchester or indeed London.

Frank spied her as she stood before the looking-glass and put the last touches to her toilette. "Sophy, you look adorable!"

"'Adorable'? Oh, Frank, such a word!" said young Mrs. Harrison. "Though I do enjoy it when you give me compliments," she added, with an innocently flirtatious smile. She turned back to the mirror as she set her hat right. "There. I suppose that must do."

"It will do very well indeed, my love. You are quite irresistible," said Frank.

"Another word!" She turned to him, smiling. "And you look very fine yourself.

"Well, shall we go? I should not like to leave my father to contain Lizzie and Helen's excitement by himself."

"I am not certain that is possible, even with our help, but yes, it is time we were on our way."

* * *

May Day once more! So much had happened over the past year, and yet the festivities proceeded as they always had, with music and dance and every opportunity to admire neighbors in their holiday finery, and perhaps attract a little attention of one's own. It was the day for it.

There was Mr. Johnson, striding about in his red mayoral robes, and Mrs. Johnson, head held high, in a gown that befitted her dignity.

There was Dr. Morgan, jovial and dapper as ever he'd been, and well contented too, for his bride was by his side, and May Day marked the anniversary of their most unexpected but altogether happy courtship.

Edward Carter and his betrothed, Miss Laurentia Galindo, were no less contented, for all that it was for them very nearly an ordinary working day. Indeed they were the stern, serious Mr. Carter and quiet Miss Galindo still -- he in his accustomed brown coat and hat, walking stick in hand, and she in her modest purple gown. But if they were not as festively turned out as Dr. and Mrs. Morgan, they attracted quite as much attention, or rather more, for they were to be wed shortly, and therefore must prove quite as much a subject of discussion as the warm and dry weather, or the plan for the new school.

It was an especially happy day for Miss Matilda Jenkyns, who appeared in the company not only of Miss Mary Smith but her brother, Peter, and indeed both the Hearnes and their little baby. Miss Matty, always demurely tidy, had taken special care today and put on a new spring gown that flattered her delicate skin and soft blue eyes. She was excited at the prospect of the pageant and other festivities, and Mary was pleased to think that after all the heartaches of the past two years, Miss Matty was truly beginning to enjoy herself.

But Miss Matty was also of course determined to devote herself to Matilda Hearne, however long and lustily that young miss cried, that Martha and Jem too might take pleasure in the day's celebrations. Truth to tell, though, both parents were a good deal too tired to pay any degree of attention to the May Day events, and there had been no question of Jem donning the costume of Jack in the Green and dancing about as he had done the previous year. No, he and Martha might have been content to rest in the grass for the entire morning and part of the afternoon, and leave everyone else to their merriment.

Augusta Tomkinson, slightly more energetic, was evidently of a mind to follow Miss Matty's example and serve as ministering angel to a mother, for she had agreed to supervise the little twins during the May Day celebrations. Dear Caroline was indisposed, Miss Tomkinson explained delicately, but had consented that her sister have charge of the children, at least as long as her nerves should remain steady.

Her brother-in-law, Mr. Goddard, had given his employees a holiday, and so it was that his assistant, Mr. Beckett, spent the morning in the sun, having helped the other men with the merry preparations of the platform and garlands and a Jack in the Green costume fully as impressive as the one of the previous year. He was pleased to play his part in the festivities, and vastly contented that he'd made the village his home, especially on a day such as this, when everyone from the rosy-faced little children to her ladyship found reason enough to gather together and observe the ceremonies as they'd done in times past, as surely they'd always do in Cranford.

* * *

Mrs. Clara Smith arrived in due course, making a little stir, and not merely because all six of her own children accompanied her. Of course a half dozen little redheads and their auburn-haired mama_ must _attract attention in Cranford, but Clara, like Miss Matty, had also taken considerable pains with her May Day attire. And it must be noted as well that Mrs. Smith, in her remarkable new gown of green and white, was in that rarest of conditions in her married life: neither shortly to be delivered of a child nor cradling a newborn in her arms. In fact the very cut of the dress suggested that she had become newly reacquainted with her waist, and if she was not as slender as her stepdaughter, she was very much the trim, tidy young Manchester matron.

Which is not to say she was as serene as she was fashionable. No indeed; she scurried about like a particularly nervous mother hen seeing to her chicks.

But surely that was the wrong analogy. The children, Mary decided, actually reminded her of sheep -- too numerous and too stubborn to supervise without practiced skill, and perhaps the assistance of a reliable dog. Isaac, the eldest, was blessed with uncommon energy this morning, and put it to use teasing Abigail, the second-eldest, as prim as her brother was unruly. Little Ralph, so recently displaced as the baby of the family, was running all about on his sturdy little legs -- that is, when he was not tugging at his mama's skirts.

It was only morning and Clara's voice was already waxing shrill, for all that she attempted a veneer of serene festivity.

"Mama, let me take Rachel, that you might rest," said Mary to her stepmother.

"Rest? I am not here to rest," said Clara. "And pray do not call me 'Mama' in company, for it makes me feel so very old," she added in a loud whisper. "But you may take Rachel, for your face looks so much brighter when you are holding a baby next to it."

"Upon my word, Mary," she added, glancing about her, "there do not seem to be many smart young men about. Are there no bachelors in this town?"

"There is Mr. Jenkyns," said Mary helpfully, and wickedly, drawing precisely the response she expected.

"That is not what I meant, Mary," said Clara peevishly. "And it would be most improper for you to form an attachment with Miss Matilda's brother! Besides," she added, "Mr. Jenkyns is not of a good age for you. I had rather see you wed to a man of thirty, or perhaps forty, if it comes to that." She spied a figure across the grass. "Who is that gentleman in the brown? The one with the gold-topped walking stick. He looks very distinguished."

"Mama, that is Mr. Carter, Lady Ludlow's estate manager."

"Oh, indeed? Why then have you not --"

"He is a widower but has recently become engaged to be married."

"Oh!" Clara's tone was a mixture of frank astonishment, polite acknowledgment, and ill-concealed dismay.

"Indeed he will be wed before the month is out," continued Mary, with satisfaction as immense as it was perverse.

"Oh, dear. Well, then, you must --"

But all at once Mary was no longer paying any attention to what Clara was saying.

Looking remarkably smart and tidy for a man who'd come on horseback all the way from Manchester, Jack Marshland was striding across the field.

* * *

Mary desired nothing so much as that the earth might open up then and there and swallow her entirely before her stepmother could utter another word or cast another glance. But there was no escaping now; Jack was here, and Mama's sharp eyes were surveying him from the toes of his boots to the crown of his hat.

As for Mary's eyes, they were fixed mainly on the ground. She couldn't bring herself to look into Jack's face, to acknowledge what had happened. Surely he would be astride his horse in a trice, and on the road back to Manchester, if he fully grasped the horror of their situation.

Indeed it took considerable effort for Mary to turn to her stepmother and utter the fateful words: "Mama, this is Dr. Jack Marshland of the Manchester Infirmary."

Jack gave Mrs. Smith his pleasantest smile, and a bow as well.

"From Manchester! Why, then we have both gone to a great deal of trouble to make each other's acquaintance, for I have only just arrived from Manchester myself."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all for me; my horse could walk it blindfold," replied Jack, as Mary's heart sank ever lower.

"And I hope it was a pleasant journey for you. Indeed it ought to have been quite a merry one, riding along with six little children, all the image of their mother!" he added, grinning at the row of redheads before him.

"I wish _I_ had a pony," spoke up Isaac.

"Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you! And then you should travel to Cranford to visit your sister whenever you pleased," said Jack.

"And I should go to London as well!" said the boy.

As Jack and the little ones became engaged in a vigorous discussion of ponies, Clara seized the opportunity, along with her stepdaughter's sleeve. "Mary," she whispered into her ear, rather too loudly, "an _Irishman_?"

* * *

Of course it must come to pass that while they were all standing thus together, the Huttons and Harrisons should arrive to greet everyone warmly, with Frank and Sophy looking quite as handsome as ever a young couple had. It was surely painful to Clara, thought Mary, to think of what might have been, to imagine Mary herself on the young physician's arm, as the object of admiration and envy.

But Mary had greatly underestimated Frank's loyalty to Jack, and had not foreseen that he would quickly assess the situation and engage Mrs. Smith in conversation to a particular purpose.

Indeed it was quite touching to see the pains he took to sway her opinion.

"Dr. Marshland is one of my dearest friends, Mrs. Smith," he said warmly. "You should know that we trained together at Guy's Hospital."

"Indeed? Why, then you must have seen many a ghastly sight!"

Frank was rather flummoxed at that, but recovered quickly. "Oh, that is the lot of the physician, Mrs. Smith, but pray do not distress yourself over it.

"And talking of sight, that is Dr. Marshland's particular interest. He has uncommonly good understanding of the eye, its ailments and defects, and I have more than once referred my own patients to him for concerns of that sort. It is, after all, best that they should consult an expert, and I can warmly recommend Dr. Marshland."

"Can you, Dr. Harrison?" said Clara in reply. "My husband wears spectacles, and of course now dear Mary does as well. But I do not require such devices myself, and surely my own little children will follow my example, and enjoy such exceedingly abundant health as their Mama."

At that Frank seemed quite vanquished, and it was left to Sophy to take up the conversation.

"Indeed your children are very like you. And they are so lively!" said Sophy, gazing over to where Jack was in a merry discussion with Helen and Lizzie and at the same time under siege by a gaggle of red-haired children eager to play. One of the little boys was marching about with the Irishman's hat on his head.

"Daniel!" shrieked Clara. "Give Dr. Marshland his hat!" Turning back to Sophy, she sighed, "Yes, they are lively, and it is a great deal of work. You will not take offense if I speak so frankly."

"Of course I shall not take offense," replied Sophy, "and indeed I understand you very well."

Clara smiled indulgently. "My dear, you are not long married, and cannot understand fully, not yet."

"Not fully, Mrs. Smith. But I did take charge of the household, as well as the upbringing of my sisters," said Sophy, nodding in the direction of Helen and Lizzie, "and my younger brother too, after my mother died."

"Oh!" said Clara, not without sympathy.

"But I felt as though my mother had never truly left my side, not completely, in all the years that followed," said Sophy, adding, "though I learned to recognize other ministering angels as time passed." She and Frank exchanged a smile before she turned back to Clara. "And I think there are good angels enough among us today.

"It is nearly time for the dancing to begin," she continued. "Shall we beg Dr. Marshland's assistance in gathering up the children?" Sophy again looked over at Jack, still surrounded by Huttons and various Smiths. "They seem to have quite taken to him."

* * *

"So how does Mrs. Sheehan get on? I'd have thought your father would have given her a holiday today, that she might accompany you all."

"Papa gave her leave to come, but she wanted to start her baking, and so remained behind," said Lizzie.

"That's a great pity," said Jack. "But she is a quiet sort of woman, and perhaps felt a bit shy today."

"She is not shy with us, and I like her," said Lizzie. "But Helen thinks she is a witch!"

"I do not!" said Helen. "I like her too. But she sings all these queer songs when she's about her work and then won't sing a word when she goes to church with us."

"No," said Jack sadly. "She wouldn't."

* * *

"Miss Smith's young man is handsome, is he not?" said Mrs. Forrester to Miss Pole as they watched Dr. Marshland and Miss Smith accompany the Hutton girls and all the little Smiths across the field.

"I confess there is something in his expression and manner that does not quite suit me. I had rather thought that a physician must cultivate a sober mien, and Dr. Marshland is so relentlessly merry."

"Upon my word, Miss Pole, it is much better that Dr. Marshland endeavor to be pleasant than the reverse, lest his patients lose all hope and turn their faces to the wall before he has a chance to discover what ails them!" said Mrs. Jamieson.

"Indeed he is not an undertaker, Miss Pole," added Mrs. Forrester. "Besides, it is well that a man take pleasure in laughter. Are not Mr. Jenkyns and Captain Brown better men for being so good-humored? We should become very dull indeed without their company."

"That may be taking it a bit too far, Mrs. Forrester," said Mrs. Jamieson, "though I am as fond of a merry tale as anyone.

"But I do agree that Dr. Marshland has a most pleasing countenance, for all that he _is_ an Irishman."

"And he is so kind to the children," said Mrs. Forrester. "Oh! Look at those imps!" said she, chuckling. "But surely there's no harm in high spirits and even a bit of mischief, not in a little lad."

"And yet little lads grow into men, Mrs. Forrester, and get up to infinitely worse mischief," observed Mrs. Pole.

"That is certainly true," said Mrs. Jamieson. "One certainly knows what the men get up to on May Day!"

"Oh, indeed," said Miss Pole. "Especially when there's strong drink about," she added ominously. "Do you not recall how someone once caught a piglet and released it in church during matins?"

"Indeed I do," said Mrs. Jamieson. "And there was that distasteful incident with the goat as well."

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Forrester. "You do not think those bad boys are teasing my Bessie, even as we speak?"

"Surely not, surely not, Mrs. Forrester," said Mrs. Jamieson, "not when there is so much to engage them here."

* * *

"Where's Sarah got to, Harry?"

"I don't know, Dada. I haven't been able to find her."

Job Gregson swore softly under his breath. Since his cousin, a pretty lass of eighteen, had come to join his household and look after his children, she'd found excuses enough to slip away, and always when she was most needed.

No, it was Harry, God bless him, whom Job relied upon most. But Sarah must do; there was nothing else for it, as he couldn't afford a housekeeper.

"I think she's gone to see the dancing, Dada."

"Right. You take James now," said Job, handing the child over to his eldest. "Jemima, Keziah, take David's hands. Malachi, look sharp! Don't dawdle now."

They discovered Sarah, her face pink with the sun, her skirts stained with grass, amidst the crowd by the platform.

Job took her by the arm. "Time to be going," he announced, in a voice that was low but still unmistakable in its fury.

"Oh, not so soon," said Sarah with dismay. "Everyone is so merry, cousin Job. Can we not stay a bit longer?"

"We should not have come at all." Job had thought that the entire morning, for all that he'd yielded to the pleas of Sarah and indeed his own little children. Only Harry had understood -- Harry, whom Bella had watched with such pride the year before, when the boy took his part in the pageant. There was no cause for celebration today, though, Job knew, and so did Harry.

"Home. Now!"

"To do what? Sit listening as Harry reads from the Bible?" Sarah watched Job's face grow a darker red, and thought for a moment that but for all the people standing round, he'd have given her a good box on the ear. Still, he looked down at his little girls, and at Harry, solemn-faced, and his anger passed as sorrow replaced it.

"Just a bit longer, then," he said grudgingly, as Sarah's face brightened. "But don't you stir from my sight."

* * *

Mary had taken a chair and was sitting with Rachel in her lap. She'd no chance at all to move from the spot, as the child had fallen into a deep sleep, and even conversation itself should prove difficult.

Still, Jack came up to her now, and dropped into the seat beside her. "They're dear, funny things, your brothers and sisters," he said, "but they've fairly worn the both of us out."

"She's a little angel, isn't she," he added in a whisper, looking at Rachel's coppery blond hair and delicately curved pink lips.

"When she is peacefully sleeping, yes," said Mary with a wry expression. "When she had the colic, it was another matter entirely."

"I can imagine. But she's such a sweet thing now. And aren't you a sight yourself! It suits you, Mary, to be holding a baby in your arms."

She made no reply to that, but he saw her blush, saw her shift her arms about the little girl. She would not meet his gaze, but he was glad he'd said it, glad he was sitting next to her, even if he couldn't touch her. There was a wonderfully companionable silence between them, and he'd not have wished himself anywhere else. Indeed he might have happily sat there by the hour, watching as Mary held the sleeping baby in her arms.

* * *

"You've made Dr. Marshland look quite the Byronic hero," observed Augusta Tomkinson with a chuckle as she sat at the tea table and examined Miss Galindo's sketchbook.

"Did I? said Miss Galindo, smiling. "Well, his hat was off, and so perhaps he looked just a trifle wild and romantic."

"Indeed he is all dark hair and noble brow," said Miss Tomkinson before turning to the next page. "Oh! And I see you have noted the dimple in my chin. You are very observant, Miss Galindo. But upon my word, this sketch of Miss Smith is uncommonly fine."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Miss Tomkinson."

"No, truly, you have rendered the curves of her face very well. She looks quite serene. And the child is beautifully drawn too. Such a little angel."

"Yes, children do make such wonderful subjects."

"Indeed they do," said Miss Tomkinson. "Perhaps you might draw a portrait of my sister with the twins."

"I would be most happy to do so, though I confess my skill might not be equal to the challenge."

"Oh, I do not believe that, Miss Galindo," said her companion. "But there is something lacking here," she said, turning over one page after another. "There is no portrait of your affianced husband."

At that Miss Galindo blushed very deeply. "Mr. Carter expressed a wish that I draw no picture of him today," she said. "And indeed I should not be able to do so, for he has hardly been still since we set out this morning."

"No? I dare say his obligations to her ladyship provide a good deal to engage him, even on May Day."

"'Indeed there is always a good deal to engage him," said Miss Galindo with a wry smile. "Even and perhaps especially on May Day."

* * *

"I do hope those boys are not teasing my Bessie."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester, that is perhaps the twentieth time you have expressed such a sentiment," said Miss Pole. "If you are so concerned, why do we not then go to the pasture and look, that you might set your mind at rest?"

"Oh, surely that is unnecessary."

"Indeed it is not, if you are going to spend the afternoon fretting yourself into a state of exhaustion. I propose that we go directly."

"Mama, might I go to see the cow?" asked Abigail Smith, who had overheard the two ladies' conversation.

"Indeed you may not," said Clara Smith. "Firstly I do not wish you to bother Mrs. Forrester, and secondly you'll spoil your dress."

"Oh, there's no bother at all in the child accompanying us, Mrs. Smith, " said Mrs. Forrester kindly. "And my Bessie is so gentle and sweet. Your daughter will come to no harm, and I'll not let her spoil her pretty clothes."

"I am certain you speak truth, but I had rather Abigail remained behind to mind her little brother, " said Clara.

"Oh! Such a pity," said Mrs. Forrester sadly. "Well, then, if you will excuse us, please, we shall return directly." And she set out for the pasture in the company of Miss Pole.

* * *

Her ladyship had departed in her carriage, Sir Charles Maulver had done the same, all the Morris dancers had dispersed, and many of the villagers had settled down at the tea tables to take refreshment when a horrific shriek rent the air. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned to behold Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole, both breathless and greatly agitated, scurrying into the clearing.

Miss Pole glanced wildly among the crowd, searching for someone, anyone, who might assist them, and at once her eyes trained on Mr. Carter. She hurried up to him, outrunning her friend, but it was Mrs. Forrester, right on her heels, who managed to speak first.

"There is a corpse lying in the pasture!"

* * *

Someone had fetched chairs and made the two ladies sit down, and someone had thought as well to fetch Mr. Graves, the constable. Dr. Morgan had forced his way through the crowd, with Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland close behind him and, almost as an afterthought, Mr. Johnson behind _them._

"But what did you see, Mrs. Forrester?" said Mr. Carter, training his eyes on the poor woman and causing her heart to flutter even more than it had been doing.

"Now then, Mr. Carter, I know my office," said Mr. Graves forcefully. "I'll put the questions to the ladies." Turning to Mrs. Forrester, he demanded, "Now then, just what did you see?"

"She saw a body lying in the pasture!" shrieked Miss Pole. "What more is there to say?"

"There is a great deal more to say," began Mr. Carter.

"Thank you, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Graves. He turned back to Mrs. Forrester. "What was in the pasture?"

"Just my cow, Bessie, and -- and a body," said Mrs. Forrester.

"But did you go up to the body, examine it?" asked Mr. Carter.

"No, of course not!" shrieked Miss Pole, as her friend was overcome with tears.

"Then how do you know someone had not been injured, and perhaps at this moment still requires our help?" asked Mr. Carter. A murmur went through the crowd.

"Aye, that's certainly possible," said Mr. Graves. "Maybe the cow kicked him in the head." A few onlookers dared to laugh but stopped when Mrs. Forrester declared indignantly, "My Bessie wouldn't harm a soul."

"That is very true, but there's someone abroad who would," said Miss Pole darkly.

"We shall all be murdered in our beds!" wailed Mrs. Forrester, overcome once more.

"Someone fetch a glass of water from the refreshment tent," bellowed Dr. Morgan, but everyone remained rooted to the spot.

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Forrester," said Mr. Carter. "There is no need to talk so wildly."

"My butler has a musket," said the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, who had pushed through the crowd and was standing at Mr. Carter's elbow. "Perhaps that might afford us some protection."

"There's no need to talk of firearms, either," said Mr. Carter.

"If you please, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Graves icily. He turned to the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson. "We've no need of weaponry just yet, Mrs. Jamieson.

"But I shall need you to come with me, madam," he said, looking at Mrs. Forrester, "and you as well, Miss Pole. And I shall want Dr. Harrison to examine the body," he added, nodding towards the physician.

"Of course," said Dr. Harrison.

"Shall you not require my services, Mr. Graves?" asked Dr. Morgan plaintively.

"Begging your pardon, Dr. Morgan," said Mr. Graves, "we don't know who's about in the woods around here, and I'd like a strong young fellow by my side."

"Then perhaps I could assist," spoke up Dr. Marshland. "I too am a physician."

"As you wish," said Mr. Graves. "Now, where is Jem Hearne?"

"What do you want with Jem?" said Martha nervously as her husband stepped forward.

"Why, he must fetch the corpse back, and make its coffin," intoned Miss Pole.

"Right," said Mr. Graves. "Get us a cart, and we'll be off."

* * *

"I am not fond of hoaxes, Mrs. Forrester," said Mr. Graves as the six of them stood at the fence and gazed across the pasture.

"I'm sure I don't know what has happened, Mr. Graves," said poor Mrs. Forrester, blushing. "There's my Bessie, just as right as rain, and yet there is no body at all. I cannot account for it."

"Perhaps the murderer has carried off his victim, to thwart the law in yet another fashion," said Miss Pole, her eyes surveying the scene. "Oh! Look there! Stop! Stop!"

A figure was running into the woods, and for a moment everyone merely stood watching, unable to speak or to move. Then, as if by agreement, Jack and Frank sprang over the fence and made after the fugitive. Jem Hearne, a good deal too tired to engage in the pursuit of runaway corpses, remained standing at the fence with the ladies and the constable.

It was, Jack thought later, a wise decision on Jem's part. For all that it had been dry of late, he and Frank found crossing the pasture none too easy, and their boots were in a deplorable state by the time they caught up with their quarry. But of course Frank must outrun him, then seize the fugitive and wrestle him to the ground.

It was a young man, a boy, really, perhaps seventeen. He was clearly the worse for drink, and much worse for what had come upon him afterward, and a good deal worse yet for having tumbled face down in Mrs. Forrester's pasture, to lie there for quite some time, with only Bessie for company.

Mr. Graves made a pantomime of bringing charges for trespassing but allowed Mrs. Forrester to humor him into releasing the lad, while Jack and Jem fought manfully against the urge to laugh. Only Frank and Miss Pole remained serious, the one dismayed at the thought of appearing before the village in his current state, the other resolutely determined to remain unamused.

* * *

"You will not tell me what happened?" said Mary when Frank and Sophy had departed for home.

"Oh, it was a most miraculous recovery!" said Jack, hoping to draw a smile from her, and failing utterly.

"I see you are determined to tease me."

"Mary, I gave my word to Mr. Graves! He said I was only to say that some poor fellow was injured, but not badly, and was conducted safely home. That's close enough to the truth."

"Though not actually the truth."

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in your knowing more. You won't tell tales."

"Of course not."

"Well, then," said Jack, and he whispered in Mary's ear.

"Is that all? Well, I suppose it's the sort of thing that can happen. But how humiliating!"

"Yes." Jack shifted uneasily from one foot to another. "Mind you, it was all the more humiliating for Frank. I hope Sophy won't be too cross with him."

"No, she can't be angry with him for long. Besides, I think she knew he was miserable enough with Dr. Morgan scolding him, and Helen and Lizzie holding their sides laughing."

"Anyway, everything will be forgotten by tomorrow."

"Indeed it will not, Jack. This is Cranford."

* * *

"Mama, I had thought you were to stop at Princess Street and take some refreshment before departing for Manchester. Indeed Miss Matty had her heart set upon it."

"Oh, my dear, you know how difficult the children become when they have been running about all day. Miss Matty will understand when I make my apologies," said Clara Smith. "Now go fetch Abigail to me, and mind you have her properly bid goodbye to the rector and his girls."

Mary, brow furrowed, hurried off to find her little half-sister.

Clara turned to Jack, who was as yet standing by. "There are times, Dr. Marshland, when I think my children run in different directions merely to vex me. Indeed I cannot be easy in my mind until they are all around me."

"My mother is just the same, Mrs. Smith," said Jack kindly. "And surely your husband will be gladdened to see them all coming home to him this evening."

"Oh! He quite dotes on his little brood, though he does worry for them so." Clara hesitated before going on, as if struggling to form the appropriate words. "I must confide in you, Dr. Marshland, that it sometimes troubles me that my children might be left without a home while they are still very young. Of course when I was first wed, I did not concern myself with the difference between my husband's age and mine, but now can think of little else than that he'll be sixty-five when our eldest reaches his majority. Imagine!"

"A man with such a fine family has my respect," said Jack warmly. "And I wish him long life and good health, of course."

"Thank you. And yet I am certain you understand, Dr. Marshland, when I say that wishing won't make it so, and that my worries are not without cause."

"No, of course not."

"It is just that -- and I do not wish to be indelicate, but of course you will understand why I must be so frank -- when it comes time for Mary to wed, there will be very little money to settle upon --"

At that moment Mary returned, leading Abigail by the hand. As she looked from one telltale scarlet face to the other, she wondered who began their conversation, and to what end. But she had no doubt whatever of its subject.

* * *

It had been an eventful day, with its share of surprises and disappointments, and yet despite all Miss Matty had retained her good humor, as well as her graciousness. She now approached Jack and Mary to announce that Jem and Martha had already returned home with the baby, but Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo had offered to see the rest of them back.

"Perhaps Dr. Marshland would like to return with us and take some refreshment before he goes back to Manchester."

"I'd like nothing better, Miss Matty, but I'm obliged to call at the rectory, and so I was hoping to escort Miss Smith back by way of the brook, with Helen and Lizzie for company -- that is, if you and Mr. Jenkyns have no objection."

Miss Matty cast a tender glance at Mary and replied, "I've none whatsoever, as long as it is what Mary wishes."

What Mary wished! Jack had no opportunity to discover what Mary wished, of course; there was to be no opportunity for private conversation. Normally he'd not have minded walking back with the little Hutton girls, but this time he sorely needed to talk to Mary, without teasing or banter. That was impossible as long as Helen and Lizzie were brimming with curiosity about what had taken place at the pasture, and Jack felt a perverse satisfaction in denying them the details they craved.

In the end, though, he must take his leave of Mary, and before the eyes of the Huttons. At least he could promise that he should shortly return to Cranford. That much was a certainty.

By the time they reached the rectory it was very late in the day, and Mrs. Sheehan was seeing to some vegetables for the rector's supper. Jack knocked on the kitchen door.

"Mrs. Sheehan."

"Dr. Marshland." Bridey inclined her head.

"I meant to see how you get on."

"Oh, I'm grand, sir."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am! The girls are dear little things, and the master only _looks_ stern. No, I think we shall get on very well, so long as they need me."

"I thought it might suit you."

"It does. It's quiet enough -- well, as quiet as it may be with two girls in the house. And the village is a queer little place."

"Without much to do," said Jack meaningfully, "but talk about the neighbors."

"That's true enough," said Bridey, without emotion, "but surely there's no harm in most of it."

"No, not in most of it, but look after yourself."

"I will. Thank you." As Jack made to go out the door, she added, "So she doesn't live at the rectory, then."

He turned back to face her. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Sheehan."

At that Bridey said not another word, though Jack, as he stepped out the door, could have sworn he heard her snort.

* * *

If Edward Carter had been a bear, he ought surely to have been growling by evening. It had been a day as unpredictable as it was trying, and had proved anything but a holiday for him. Not that he had expected a holiday himself, mind you, but it _was_ May Day, and he had hoped that some of the festive spirit, some of the fellow feeling might have affected him. Instead he was decidedly cross.

And Laurie, with whom he'd hoped to have at least a few minutes, had not helped matters much by accepting Miss Matty's invitation. They must rest, they must take some refreshment, insisted Miss Matty. Well, he'd no objection to either, but he doubted very much that he had energy and good humor enough to do so in her sitting-room, making polite conversation. He returned the trap and made his way to Princess Street, resolving to extract himself and Laurie from the Jenkyns home as soon as it might be politely attempted.

He rapped on the door and was promptly admitted by Martha Hearne, who looked surprisingly bright-eyed, given the hour of the day and the presence of the baby in the house. She conducted him to the sitting-room and announced, with what seemed suspiciously like a flourish, "Mr. Carter, madam."

There was Miss Matty, seated on the sofa, and beside her was Laurie. In her arms was an infant, and Edward was momentarily speechless.

"Mr. Carter!" said Miss Matty brightly. "Come and meet Matilda."

"Matilda?" he echoed.

"If you please, Mr. Carter," said Martha, "that's my child." She look the baby in her arms with practiced ease, lifting her elbow just slightly so that he might enjoy a better view of Matilda's drowsy face.

"And she's Miss Matty's little goddaughter, Edward," said Laurie.

"You must be very proud," said Edward, to no one in particular, and at that both Martha and Miss Matty chuckled appreciatively.

"Right. I'll put her in her cradle, and see to the tea."

Martha vanished out the door with Matilda, and Miss Matty rose to her feet. "Do sit down, Mr. Carter," she said, gesturing to the sofa. "Peter will be arriving presently. He so wants to speak with you."

When Miss Matty too had disappeared, Edward, in a state of total bewilderment, at last took his place on the sofa.

"I am sorry, Edward," said a soft voice beside him. "It was, perhaps, too much to accept the invitation, after the day you have had. But Miss Matty wanted to acknowledge your kindness -- indeed she has been very kind to me as well -- and so I had not the heart to refuse."

He turned to look at her. "I've not had more than a word or two with you all day," said Edward, putting his arm about her waist. "I've barely seen you."

"You must admit it has been a most eventful day -- cows and corpses and all manner of things." Laurie laughed softly against his shoulder. "And I am exhausted."

"And well you should be, up till all hours of the night. I hope you don't mean to continue this way, or you'll --"

He realized suddenly that she was yet leaning right into his shoulder and had dropped off to sleep while he had been speaking. So much for minding what he had to say! But he had to admit it was pleasant to sit there with her comfortably resting against him. Indeed he might have been content to remain thus for hours.

* * *

"Upon my word, Miss Matty," said Miss Pole, frowning. "It may well be May Day, but I had no notion that propriety had been so well and truly defeated, and in your own sitting-room! Miss Smith and I opened the door, and what should we see but Miss Galindo fast asleep, and Mr. Carter next to her, wide awake, with his arm about her waist. What should Deborah say?"

Miss Matty smiled, her eyes misty. "I think that Deborah should say it is the most proper place in the world for his arm to be."

* * *

_To be continued..._

**Note: Miss Matty's famous exchange with Deborah on the delicate subject of decorum occurs in "The Captain," chapter 1 of Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford.**


	29. Submitted to Fate and Love

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by the Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection whatsoever to Mrs. Gaskell or the Beeb. The Victorians are another matter.

Purists will note that several of the characters, notably Miss Galindo and Dr. Marshland, owe more to the BBC series and my own imagination than to Mrs. Gaskell, and a few are even outright inventions.

This chapter's title comes from a phrase in chapter 4 of the novel **Cranford**.

* * *

**Chapter 29: Submitted to Fate and Love**

It was as fine a piece of work as he'd done, thought Jem, and even if no one had told him as much, he'd still have been proud. But his heart was secretly bursting as he saw Mr. Carter run his hands over the polished wood and heard him murmuring his approval.

"This part here will hold your crutches, sir," said Jem helpfully "So you'll always have them to hand. None of this clattering about of a morning, and disturbing Mrs. Carter," he added with a chuckle.

"It is most ingenious, what you've done. I've never seen the like of it," said Mr. Carter. "And it's very finely finished as well."

"Thank you, sir. And I thought to make it fit for a tall fellow -- no close, cramped thing such as might do for someone a head shorter, but a bed long and broad enough for you to be as comfortable as you please."

"No, it will do very well indeed," said Mr. Carter, examining the footboard, "and you've made very quick work of it, for all the care you've taken."

"Sir, I could hardly let you get wed with everything at sixes and sevens, and no proper bed!" And Jem chuckled again.

The laugh died in his throat when he saw Miss Galindo standing in the doorway of the room. "Forgive my intrusion, Mr. Hearne," she said gently. Poor Jem was blushing now at the thought he'd been joking about beds within earshot of a lady, and in the company of the man she was about to wed.

"It seems my old shelves have been placed in the sitting-room, Edward," she said, addressing Mr. Carter, "very nearly alongside the handsome new ones Mr. Hearne has constructed," she added, smiling at Jem. "But did we not think to put the old shelves, and my books with them, in the study?"

"I thought it best to have them placed near your easy chair, and the sitting-room will be a good deal more comfortable. Besides, what is there to occupy you in the study?"

Jem detected the beginning of a squabble, and he didn't have long to wait for proof.

"Why, Edward, I must keep the household accounts," she said mildly, "though perhaps it matters not which room I use for that task. But I had very much thought to peruse your collection of books at will." Her eyes grew mischievous and she added, almost under her breath, "Perhaps there are works you wish to conceal from my sight."

Jem watched with great sympathy as Mr. Carter turned bright red. "Indeed I wish to conceal nothing," he said, rather more strongly than he needed to. "All my worldly goods are at your disposal."

"As mine are at yours," said Miss Galindo, with a nod, and a smile of decided contentment. "Then we are agreed. My books will join yours in the study."

"Laurentia," said Mr. Carter, lowering his voice, "might we not discuss this later?"

"I thought it most practical to see to the arrangements now, when the men are carrying my belongings into the house. We shall not have such assistance later."

"In due course you will have leisure enough to arrange everything to your liking. For now let us simply bring it all inside directly and fret about the order another time."

Jem Hearne knew nothing at all of diplomacy, but even he could recognize an unfortunate choice of words. He was not astonished at the chilly note in Miss Galindo's usually warm, musical voice voice, nor by the rising color in her cheeks as she said, "I do not particularly relish the thought of wasting my leisure with _fretting_, Edward, nor had I any notion of preventing the orderly transfer of my goods to your house. But I had thought to share in giving directions, if only to save labor."

At that Mr. Carter, looking decidedly uncomfortable, turned to Jem. "Please excuse us for but a moment." He slipped his hand beneath Miss Galindo's elbow and escorted her into the hallway to conduct the rest of their discussion, or argument, as Jem tried not to listen.

Perhaps it was always this way, he thought, when a couple married. After all, he and Martha had had a series of steady rows, beginning with their engagement. And he'd wager Prince Albert himself had squabbled with the queen right from the first.

* * *

"So you never thought Mr. Carter's study concealed some dark secret," said Mrs. Morgan at the tea table the following afternoon, after hearing an account of the furniture placement in the Carter home. "Though now Jem Hearne must wonder if it does."

"It _was _terribly wicked of me to say it," admitted Miss Galindo, with an unrepentant smile. "I simply cannot resist an opportunity for teasing.

"But if Edward has secrets, that is in itself a secret from me. Indeed I do not think it is in his nature to do anything that will not bear scrutiny. He quite despises subterfuge and trickery."

"But that is all to the good, Laurentia," said Mrs. Morgan. "Lady Ludlow would never have entrusted her estate to his care if he were not an upright man." She added, just touch slyly, "Nor would you be doing the same with your life and happiness."

At that Miss Galindo blushed. "No, that is true. Edward is nothing if not trustworthy. It is only that he at times proves too masterful," she said, "and prefers issuing a command to brooking a discussion."

"But Mr. Carter is accustomed to giving commands, Laurentia," said Mrs. Morgan softly, "on her ladyship's authority and his own."

"Then you think I ought to have kept silent?" asked Miss Galindo, her eyes betraying doubt.

"No," said Mrs. Morgan. "But it is no surprise when a man's profession follows him home."

"And you, of all women, must know that!" replied Miss Galindo. "No, I do not think I might ever forget that Edward is Lady Ludlow's estate manager, any more than you'd forget your husband has been the only physician most of us have known these many years."

"Well, not the only physician," said Mrs. Morgan wistfully. "At least not now."

"Dr. Harrison's presence, Isobel," said Miss Galindo warmly, "diminishes not one whit the respect Dr. Morgan is accorded, or the comfort his patients feel at the sound of his voice, the sight of his kind face."

"He does have such a warm, pleasing voice," said Mrs. Morgan. "It was one of the first things I noted in him.

"But he was meant to be a physician. Laurentia. It's in his very bones."

"Or in his voice," teased Miss Galindo.

"Do you not think sometimes," said Mrs. Morgan, with unexpected gravity, "that a man's profession means a good deal more to him than all else, perhaps even than wife and children?"

"I confess I have never seriously pondered that question," said Miss Galindo. "My father was not required to seek an active profession, though, truth to tell, he took an interest in a good many things.

"But I do not believe," she added quietly, "that anything mattered more to him than did my mother, and brothers and sister, and me." At the thought her eyes filled with tears, but she continued, more briskly, "As for Edward, no one can mistake his devotion to his work, and yet he too is uncommonly interested in the world, in ideas, in the well-being of his fellow man." She gave an ironic smile. "Indeed it is possible that he spares a thought even for me."

"I'm certain his every thought is of you, " said Mrs. Morgan kindly.

"Perhaps it is when we are quarreling."

"However can you make sport of such a thing?" said Mrs. Morgan with gentle indignation. "Surely you do not doubt his regard."

"No," said Miss Galindo, at once quite as serious as her friend. "It is just that of late he is so wholly consumed by preparations -- for the school, the wedding, our own home. I really ought not to expect him to be otherwise, for he does nothing by half-measures, but it is quite exhausting.

"And there is something else, Isobel. I always thought my rooms in town quite austere, and believed I should have been glad to leave them behind. And yet I when I was removing the books from the shelves and placing my belongings into boxes and trunks, I was overcome by a curious sense of melancholy. Yet it is not that I am bereft, or that I doubt my decision to marry Edward."

"It is always so when change comes," said Mrs. Morgan. "It was with many tears that I made my own preparations for the journey to Cranford."

"But you were then a widow," said Miss Galindo, uttering the word hesitantly. "It was a brave thing you did, to come here and begin afresh. Many a woman might not have attempted it."

"Oh, I don't know that I was brave," said Mrs. Morgan in her soft Scottish accent. "And I had my good angels who helped me along the way. But perhaps it was not so very different from what you do now -- beginning anew."

"And perhaps I too have my own good angels," said Miss Galindo. She added, sighing, "I dare say I shall have need enough of them!"

* * *

When she had stepped down from the carriage, she curtsied before her ladyship, as she had done so many times before. But on this occasion Lady Ludlow's step was almost sprightly as she came forward to welcome her guest.

"Laurentia," she said, smiling, taking her hand. "I am so glad you are come."

"Lady Ludlow, I cannot begin to thank you for your kindness," said Miss Galindo.

"My dear, you are most welcome," said her ladyship. She added confidentially, as they proceeded into the house, "I should like to think your parents would smile upon this plan, and allow me the privileges that are rightly theirs."

"My parents, Lady Ludlow, should have been conscious of the honor, and felt nothing but gratitude," said Miss Galindo, giving a smile of her own.

"Only gratitude?" Lady Ludlow said. "Why, Laurentia, I should think your mother would have wished to instruct you in the duties of a wife, and your father to take pains to become acquainted with Mr. Carter's character, and satisfy himself as to your prospects for happiness. But I would assure him that I have already fulfilled the latter two tasks."

"And the first?"

"Oh, Laurentia," said Lady Ludlow. "We cannot not possibly do justice to such a subject during the briefest of walks. But perhaps over tea we might make a beginning."

* * *

Yes, he was at his desk, looking as he always did, and when he heard her approach, he rose to his feet. For a heartbeat he seemed very much the Mr. Carter of old, offering a smile that vanished as swiftly as it had come.

But of course he was by no means the Mr. Carter of old.

"You have arrived then, Laurie," he said, and she wondered at how his very voice now caused her to tremble with anticipation.

"I have indeed, and hope I caused Lady Ludlow little more upheaval than I did you the other day."

At that he smiled again and actually rolled his eyes."I fear you will find Hanbury Court a good deal more comfortable than our own home, and prefer to stop with my lady."

He came around the desk and stood very close to her, yet did not take her in his arms but looked intently at her face, particularly her lips. She sensed that had they not been under constant threat of interruption, by staff or even Lady Ludlow herself, he might have greeted her in his usual fashion. Indeed she wished he might attempt it, whatever decorum decreed.

"It is a curious thing, Edward," said Laurie. "Now I am neither at home nor among strangers, neither on a journey nor settled. Indeed it is possible your dear, familiar office is the best place for me at present, and that too is astonishing, as there was a time when I felt did not belong here, and you certainly thought the same."

"I do not think so anymore! But I wish very much that you feel as comfortable in every room of our home as you do in this office."

"Though perhaps not your study, Edward," she said. "The study ought to be left to your exclusive use."

At that his eyes opened wide with astonishment, and he said quickly, "I have thought the better of that, Laurie. You must come and go as you see fit, and I was in earnest when I said all my worldly goods are yours. By the vows I shall make to you, they are, and the study is yours as well."

"I too mean to keep my marriage vows, and I spoke just now in earnest. Edward, it is enough that you had no choice when you admitted me to this very office. At home you ought to have one room wholly at your disposal, perhaps even to enjoy a respite from me and from any children we might have."

At that his expression changed yet again, his brow furrowing, his lips settling into a frown. Before he could speak again, Laurie added quietly, "I know we have spoken very little of children, and yet it is possible that we may --"

"Laurie, let us not begin making plans too hastily. I've found -- well, 'man proposes, God disposes.'" He had turned away from her and was pacing across the room.

"Edward, I am sorry. I did not stop to consider that it might hurt you to think again of --"

"Laurie." He stopped his pacing and came to stand before her. "You must never fear to speak to me of anything," he said gently. "And I hope -- I wish that we -- well, let us discuss it at length later."

"Yes."

"I fear we have other concerns now," said Edward, sighing. "I must fetch Harry and take him to Johnson's."

At that Laurie smiled. "Poor Harry!"

"Hm. Poor Harry indeed!"

* * *

"Harry, we must make haste."

Harry had discarded his smock and put on his jacket and cap, and now Mr. Carter, hat on head and walking stick in hand, was conducting an inspection.

"Show me your hands. Fingernails too. Very good."

"I've been doing everything you've taught me, sir," said Harry, almost reproachfully.

"Yes, I see that," said Mr. Carter, stopping to examine Harry's well-worn boots. "Now then, let us be on our way."

* * *

When they had entered Johnson's Universal Stores Mr. Carter put a firm hand on Harry's back and steered him in the direction of Mr. Johnson himself. The man was obsequious and overbearing at the same time, and could be trying to one's patience, but now was not the time to approach Mrs. Johnson, especially not after the casual malice she had displayed the previous autumn, when the gossip about Laurie had been at its worst.

"Ah, Mr. Carter, I see you have brought the boy, and just in time, too. Everything was delivered yesterday." Mr. Johnson produced a new coat and shook it out. "Now then, young fellow, take off that thing you're wearing and let's get some proper clothes on your back." Harry shrugged off his jacket and submitted to the shopkeeper's attentions, and spoke not a word, though he cast sullen glances Mr. Carter's way.

Mr. Johnson pulled Harry's shoulders back. "There now. That looks very fine indeed."

"It must do," said Mr. Carter. "Harry, you have grown so much of late, I dare say this will fit you just long enough for you to wear it to church the once."

"And the trousers, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Johnson, displaying the pair that had been delivered the previous day. Harry's face turned pink, and he turned to Mr. Carter in mute supplication, evidently fearing Mr. Johnson would force him to put on the trousers then and there.

"Yes. Well, we shall have the tailor see to those. As I said, Harry's grown so much of late." Mr. Carter offered the boy a smile, which Harry did not return.

"And the boots, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Johnson, producing the new pair with a flourish.

"Oh, very fine indeed."

"Will you needing much else, Mr. Carter?" said Mr. Johnson. "I dare say you'll want a blacking brush and a hairbrush, and some soap as well," he added, studying the back of Harry's neck.

"A blacking brush? Oh, by all means, Mr. Johnson, and some sweets too, I should think," said Mr. Carter, eyeing a display of comfits. "What do you say, Harry? Do you think Malachi would --"

He turned around. Harry had gone.

* * *

It fairly made Laurie's heart ache to see the parcels Edward had brought from Johnson's Universal Stores -- parcels that now lay, as though dejected themselves, on her desk in the office.

As for Edward, he had returned looking as though he'd received a particularly stinging rebuke, and it would have been a comfort to hear him bark a command or even chide her for some fault, or provide any hint of his former confidence.

"I cannot account for it," he said now. "I saw that Harry was annoyed -- I don't care to deal with Mr. Johnson a moment longer than necessary myself -- but I did not think he would flee. He is not given to such fits of temper."

"No," said Laurie. "He is uncommonly amiable, and usually takes such pride in pleasing you. And yet --"

"And yet?" prompted Edward.

"We have been so consumed with our own arrangements and plans," she said, "that we have spent but little time on Harry's lessons.

"Quite apart from that, it must prove difficult for him to hear talk of weddings when his own father is bereaved. As for Harry himself," she added quietly, "I do not think either of us can disregard how strongly he feels the loss of his mother."

"I did not intend any coldness," murmured Edward, looking ashamed of himself.

"Indeed not," said Laurie, laying a hand on his arm. "Edward, I know how fond you are of Harry, and it grieves me to see how deeply he has hurt you. But Harry's heart is wounded as well -- forgive me; I know I need not tell you as much -- and I do not think it is in his power to continue as before."

At that Edward sighed deeply. "Harry has seemed very like a son," he said. "It is wrong of me to say that, and Job Gregson should be very displeased to hear it, quite rightly. I have placed such hopes in the boy, but they were not mine to claim."

"Edward, surely you do not reproach yourself for the kindness you have shown Harry."

"Not for anything I have done for Harry, but for my own pride, my selfishness."

"You are a proud man, Edward, but I see no selfishness in you. Indeed you have served the boy more kindly than has his own father --"

"But I am not Harry's father, Laurie," said Edward harshly. "His own father serves him ill, yet it matters not. Harry owes his duty to Job Gregson, not to me.

"But if Gregson resents my influence on Harry, I must confess in return my own bitterness that he has such a son, while I -- while Katherine and I were disappointed of our hopes, not once but many times." The admission seemed to exhaust him, and for a moment he stood silent, head bowed.

He looked up to see tears in her eyes. "Forgive me, Laurie," he said. "I did not mean to make you weep."

"We said we would speak of it," she said. "We _must_ speak of it. But I wish I had not teased you before about using your study as a sanctuary."

"Oh, that was entirely fair on your part," sighed Edward. "You saw how fiercely I guarded it."

"Yes, and I am no stranger to your fierceness," she said, smiling through tears, "and I dare say Harry might say the same. But we both of us know a great deal of your gentleness." And with that she laid her head on his breast and felt his arms wrap about her.

She did not care that they were standing in his office at Hanbury, where they might be interrupted by staff or even Lady Ludlow herself. Indeed she should not have cared if they had at that moment been in the High Street in Cranford, for every passer-by to see.

* * *

It seemed an age since Job had played the children a tune after supper, but truth to tell, he hadn't the heart for music these days. It meant the evenings were rather dull, perhaps especially for Sarah, who made her feelings plain about that as she did nearly all else.

But if Job wasn't much bothered with Sarah's feelings -- she'd been a sullen girl, for the most part, ever since she'd arrived -- he very much dreaded nightfall himself, and had as a consequence taken to asking Harry to read aloud to them each evening, when Malachi, and Jemina and Keziah too, asked him for a story -- perhaps a bit from the Bible, or out of one of those books that came from Carter, or from Miss Galindo.

Miss Galindo. She hadn't been able to hide her feelings, not completely, when Carter had brought her to see them after Bella had died. Her eyes had taken in the state of the house, the children's dirty faces, and Job saw in her face what she dared not speak with her lips.

He ought to have scorned Miss Galindo from the first, ought to have disliked the way she spoke – surely she belonged up at Hanbury Court, having tea with Lady Ludlow, and not in Hareman's Lane – but when he heard her voice, so like a sad tune on the fiddle, and her words so gentle, as gentle to him as they were to his children, he felt wonder instead of rage.

Such a woman was going to wed Carter, and she'd made a friend of Harry as well – no, more than a friend, for it was plain to see the boy thought the world of her.

Indeed Harry had told him much about Miss Galindo, and if he hadn't known his son never lied, he should not have believed a word of it. Miss Galindo was the great friend of Lady Ludlow herself, Harry said, and yet kept no carriage and horses, but made her way on foot from one end of the village to the other, and up to Hanbury whenever she was wanted. She went to Mr. Carter's office three days a week, casting up the accounts and writing the letters, and besides that kept a shop in town, and sewed caps and trimmed bonnets for all the women.

This Miss Galindo, pretty as a little bird – very like his Bella in that way, Job thought – had agreed to marry Carter. Before the month was out she'd stand in the church in Cranford and take his hand and promise to do his bidding, to bear his children, if children there'd be this time.

Job ought to have hated the both of them for it all. Yet when he'd looked into Miss Galindo's sad brown eyes, any anger left within his heart had quietly faded.

And when he thought of Carter, who'd buried one wife and then spent weeks abed himself after that Harrison fellow had cut off his leg, it was just the same. He ought to have borne a grudge, for hadn't Carter nearly stolen his son away? And yet Job found it ever more difficult to dislike him.

* * *

Harry had been reading to them from the Bible, this time the bit about God making the heavens and the earth and all the animals. It hadn't been until Harry got to the part about God taking the man's rib and forming a woman out of it that Sarah had left off yawning and complaining, and listened quietly enough.

When Harry had finished his chapters, Job ordered Sarah to put the little ones to bed, and for a moment he was left alone with his eldest boy.

"You read that very well, Harry. I shouldn't wonder if the rector made you his clerk." Harry snorted at that, and Job continued, more kindly, "No, it's true. Any road, what you read us tonight, about the man and his wife -- maybe that'll be the lesson on the day Mr. Carter gets wed."

"I don't know, Dada."

"No? Well, you'll know soon enough. It's next week, isn't it? And hasn't he promised you a new suit of clothes for it, too?"

"Yes, Dada, and boots. He's got them."

"_He's_ got them?"

"I left them with him," said Harry sullenly.

"Why, you must bring them home with you. They're not much use to Carter."

"I don't want to go, Dada."

"Don't want to go? After teasing me to let you, and Mr. Carter asking my leave?"

"I shouldn't go," said Harry stubbornly. "It would be wrong now that Mum is --"

"Don't you talk about your mother!" Job was fairly shaking with anger. He turned away for a moment. It had been painful to think of Harry in his new suit of clothes, walking through the very churchyard where his mother lay buried. And yet when Harry had first come to them with the news of Mr. Carter's wedding, Bella had been very nearly as pleased as the boy, and fairly set her heart on letting him go.

Now Job turned to Harry and spoke in as stern a voice as he could muster. "I won't have you hiding away or moping about on the day Mr. Carter gets wed. You'll do just as I bid you and put on that suit of clothes and go to church."

"Yes, Dada."

"A man's not made to live alone, Harry," Job went on, stabbing a finger at the Bible. "Mind you remember that."

* * *

Harry put off his smock and got his jacket and cap from the peg. His shoulders ached, and so did his head. He had lain awake a long time last night, thinking about what Dada had said. Yet Harry still didn't know what he might say to Mr. Carter when he met him. Surely he must still be very angry that --

"Harry."

He stopped, almost tripping over his own boots. Miss Galindo was standing just outside the door of the cowshed.

Harry could feel his face burning. "Hello, Miss." He pulled off his cap again.

"Hello, Harry," said Miss Galindo, giving him her dimpled smile. "Might I walk with you a little?"

"It's out of your way, Miss."

"Not truly, Harry, for I am staying at Hanbury until the wedding."

Harry said nothing at that, but knew that his face had gone red once more.

"Might we walk together, Harry?"

He nodded, ashamed to make any other reply. Mr. Carter must have told Miss Galindo what he had done, but surely she was too kind to scold him for it. The very thought made him feel worse.

"Harry, perhaps you aren't glad to see me just now, and I shouldn't blame you."

Harry turned to Miss Galindo in confusion. "I'm always glad to see you, Miss."

"And I you, Harry," she said gently. "But we have seen very little of each other in the last month, and there have been no lessons, at least not proper ones, for that time. I am sorry, Harry. I did not intend for it to be so."

"You're getting wed to Mr. Carter," said Harry gravely. "Sarah says that's more important than any lessons." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Miss Galindo smiling again.

"Perhaps not, Harry! Indeed Mr. Carter and I very much hope we shall still have all our friends after we are married, given all the trouble they've gone to for our sakes." Lowering her voice, she added, "Mr. Carter seems to be ordering everyone about, but I think Lady Ludlow herself will have to remind _him_ to come to church on his wedding day."

At that Harry smiled, smiled as he hadn't in a long while.

"Go on, Miss! He'll be there at sunrise."

Miss Galindo stopped walking and turned to look at him. "Do you think so, Harry?"

He saw the tears glistening in her eyes and burst out, "Please don't cry, Miss." He never wanted to make her cry again.

"No, Harry, you've made me very happy, so very happy." They walked on, Miss Galindo smiling once more, Harry increasingly puzzled by this turn of events.

"Well, then, Harry," she said at last, "would you come as well, see to it that Mr. Carter does indeed come to church? We can hardly get married if you are not there to hear our vows."

"Of course I'll come, Miss."

"I am truly grateful for that, Harry.

"But I've forgotten something." Miss Galindo reached into her bag and pulled out a small parcel. "Your sweets. Mr. Carter meant to give them to you the other day."

Harry turned pink. "Thank you, Miss."

"Of course you'll want to share them with Malachi, and your sisters too --"

"Don't you like sweets, Miss?" asked Harry, offering her the bag. "Mr. Carter might have given them to you."

Miss Galindo blushed prettily. "I will tell you something in confidence, Harry."

"Confidence?"

"A secret. I'm going to tell you something that I would not tell anyone else.

"When Mr. Carter is very sorry for something he's said or done, he brings me flowers."

"Does he do that often, then?" said Harry.

"Not often, no. But Mr. Carter is an honest man, and he knows there are times when he must confess a mistake."

"And then you're not cross with him anymore?"

"Harry, I will tell you another secret. By the time I see Mr. Carter, I have always stopped being cross."

* * *

There was no reason in the world, thought Edward Carter, that a bunch of wildflowers ought to be lying on his desk in the morning, and their appearance should have ever after remained a mystery were it not for the note that accompanied them.

_Mr. Carter I am very sorry. Miss Galindo says you are not cross with me but I do beg your pardon sir and hope you will forgive me because I still want to see you get wed if you will let me._

_Harry_

All that day the Hanbury staff found themselves discomfited by the sight of Mr. Carter smiling and indeed chuckling to himself as he went about his work. No one, however, dared to ask him what was the matter, and most put it down to a state of nervous agitation before his wedding day.

* * *

He'd never in his life met Miss Deborah Jenkyns, and yet her presence seemed to follow him that afternoon as he made his way through the streets of Manchester. "Speculation is the enemy of calm," Mary had more than once said to him, quoting Miss Jenkyns, and at that he could fairly imagine that formidable lady drawing herself up to full height and proclaiming those words before her sister and indeed all the ladies of Cranford, who surely were not made of such stern stuff as she.

God knew what Miss Jenkyns would have made of Jack, but in his heart he blessed her for providing a motto that steadied his nerves this afternoon. He didn't know why he'd been summoned to the office, and not to the house itself, to be welcomed as guest, perhaps invited to dine with the family. No, there was something cold and businesslike in this whole proceeding, and he'd been fairly driving himself mad imagining all the reasons he might be subjected to an interview in this fashion.

_Speculation is the enemy of calm, Dr. Marshland_, he could almost hear Miss Jenkyns intone from beyond the grave.

Well, then. Jack found the street and stopped at a door to read the brass nameplate.

_David V. Smith, Esq., _it read, in a fluid, dashing script.

Jack drew in a breath. Now was the time to be bold, even if he must be deferential – no easy task, that. He pushed open the door.

With as near his accustomed smile as he could manage, he nodded to the clerk within.

"Dr. Marshland to see Mr. Smith."

The man who emerged from the inner office was a fine-looking fellow, perhaps fifty or so years of age, trim and slightly taller than Jack. He had light brown hair threaded with grey, and wore a pair of spectacles fixed on his very straight nose. His face as a consequence had a serious, scholarly aspect, not unpleasing in itself, but still decidedly stern.

He spoke first, of course. "Dr. Marshland, is it?"

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"Come in, then." And Jack's heart sank at the brusqueness of the reception. Still, he was determined to see this through. "Thank you very much for receiving me, sir."

"Of course." Mr. Smith cleared his throat. "God knows I could hardly do otherwise!" He turned to his clerk. "Mr. Tarbell, pray keep the hordes at bay for the next hour or so, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dr. Marshland and I are not to be disturbed." And with that he led Jack into his office and shut the door behind them.

* * *

She was truly grateful Peter had come home again. At morning when she awoke and at night before she fell asleep she fervently thanked God for bringing him safely back to Cranford. Why, if only Deborah had lived to see Peter's return, their happiness ought to have been complete.

He was always kind, and ever in a good humor. Indeed his very presence brightened her spirits. She had known such sorrow, and for so long, and in those times Mary and faithful Martha had been her only solace. Now there was Peter, and there was Jem, and there was even the infant Matilda, and it seemed as though the household was flooded with sunshine and laughter that very nearly displaced what shadows and tears had come before.

And yet there were moments when Miss Matty felt a guilty nostalgia for those evenings when Mary and she had the leisure of sitting up late to exchange confidences, read letters, recount tales of their lives. It was true there had been tears enough in those times too, as she'd unburdened herself of one secret sorrow or another from the past, giving all into Mary's safekeeping. Dear Mary! Matty had very much felt the need of such a faithful friend in those months following Deborah's death, and before Peter's return.

But now it appeared their positions were reversed, and Mary herself perhaps needed the leisure, and the privacy, of an evening spent solely in Miss Matty's company, to confide her own secrets and consider her own dilemmas.

And dilemmas there clearly were, even for steady, sensible Mary, since she and her young man had formed their attachment. Mary of course did not call it by that name, but on May Day there had been no hiding the truth from her stepmother, who had the eyes of a hawk and very decided opinions about matches.

Miss Matty closed her eyes and could see again the events of that day. Though there had been very little said, at least in her hearing, she had seen Mrs. Smith's agitation, Dr. Marshland's determined cheerfulness, and Mary's own struggle to remain calm at their unexpected and decidedly awkward meeting.

It broke Matty's heart to see Mary grieved in any way, and not simply because of their friendship. No, surely her own Mama should have wanted Matty to provide wise guidance in such a circumstance.

But was she equal to it? Mary herself surely did not lack for courage, and Matty had always proven especially timid in matters of the heart. Yet she must not fail her young friend now, not when she so needed the warm encouragement of one who would have done anything to secure her happiness.

* * *

Extravagance.

It seemed shameful to expend a candle on reading when she was alone in her bedroom, especially at this season, when the days were longer. Besides, it was their household custom to gather each evening, to read or talk by shared light before they must retire to their several rooms.

But on this evening sleep would not come, and the weather was uncommonly warm, and so she must sit up in her bed, the covers off, and distract herself into state of sleepiness.

Distraction, let alone slumber, steadfastly refused to overtake her. She could not forget the letters, three of them, in three entirely different hands, that had arrived for her and now lay on the bed. She had read each repeatedly, and given much thought to their disparate contents, until a most vexing headache had resulted. She still knew not what to think.

Perhaps relief would come with other thoughts, innocent and diverting thoughts -- of the white rose Miss Matty had placed in the vase on her nightstand, for example, or of the pictures Miss Galindo had drawn on May Day.

Mary left the bed and went to collect the sketches. There was the image of herself with Rachel -- such a tender drawing; she hadn't known Miss Galindo possessed the talent -- and there was Jack, with his accustomed smile, his untidy dark hair and --

There came a tapping from outside her room. "Mary," said a dear, familiar voice. "Are you quite well?"

Mary gently opened the door. "Do not worry, Miss Matty. I am not ill, only wakeful."

"I saw your light and thought you must be yet awake and stirring." Miss Matty too was dressed for bed, and incautiously burning her precious candle away at this hour of the night. The sight tore at Mary's heart, and she opened the door wide to usher Miss Matty inside the room.

"Forgive me, Miss Matty. I did not mean to disturb your rest."

"Oh, no!" said her friend, with a little chuckle. "I am quite as wakeful as you are, it seems." Seeing the candle burning on the nightstand, she delicately extinguished her own light.

"I thought to read until I grew drowsy, but I have read quite enough this day," said Mary.

"Are your eyes troubling you? Oh! I see you have been admiring Miss Galindo's pictures." Matty smiled as she looked down at the portrait of Mary with the child. "Deborah always said that upon retiring one ought to occupy the mind with good thoughts and words, but I think beautiful pictures might serve just as well." She studied the sketch of Mary and Rachel. "How well you look. It causes me to think of --"

"What does it cause you to think of?" prompted Mary gently, when it seemed Miss Matty could not continue.

"There is something holy about it," said Miss Matty at last. As if to escape the subject, she turned quickly to the drawing of Jack Marshland and studied it in its turn. "It is rare," she said at last, "that an artist renders a subject as he truly is."

Mary smiled. "Yes, Miss Galindo must be as observant as she is talented."

"Indeed she must." Miss Matty turned to her and said softly, "Mary, I own that it moves me very much to see Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo together, after the great sorrow each has known."

"Each?"

"Yes. One never utters a word about Mr. Carter without the proper respect, and yet I more than once heard it said that he was a changed man after the death of his wife. There were no children, you see, and he was so utterly alone.

"As for Miss Galindo, she lost all her family, and her circumstances were reduced as well, and the worse for having no offers of marriage -- not until now, of course.

"But it quite lifts my heart to think that two such souls have at last found each other, and the comfort and help that that affords."

"Perhaps suffering serves to unite two loving hearts," said Mary warmly.

Matty smiled, a little sadly. "It may also serve to divide them, my dear. I do not doubt that it took courage for Mr. Carter to resolve to marry again, and for Miss Galindo to accept him. Grief may close the heart quite as easily as it opens it.

"But I ought not to speak to you of grief," said Miss Matty vaguely. "Not now." She looked down again at the sketches. "Mary, dear, it has meant a great deal to me to have you here."

"Meant?"

"Oh, do not mistake my meaning," said Miss Matty warmly. "I should like very much for you to regard this as your home quite as much as it is mine, and that is not intended as a slight to your Papa and stepmother."

"Miss Matty, I can say with all my heart that Cranford is fully as dear to me as any place I have known, perhaps more so, and not only because it was my mother's home," said Mary, with a great deal of emotion. "It could not have been without the friendship and kindness you and your sister and brother have so freely given to me."

At that Matty could not speak for a few moments but put a hand up to her mouth as she endeavored to compose herself.

"Thank you, my dear," she said at last, so softly it cost Mary an effort to hear the words.

"But you are young," continued Miss Matty. "You are young, and I should not like for you to feel restricted in any fashion."

"Restricted?"

"Or constrained, perhaps. That is, I do not wish for you to remain here in Cranford out of a sense of duty.

"Why, Mary! Mary, dear, whatever is wrong?"

* * *

_To be continued…_

_

* * *

_**Note: **

_"Beware of bickering about little things. Your husband returns from his labors with his mind absorbed in business. In his dealings with his employees, he is in the habit of giving command and of being obeyed. In his absent-mindedness he does not realize, possibly, the change from business to his home, and the same dictatorial spirit may possess him in the domestic circle."_

Advice from **Thomas Edie Hill **in his** Manual of Social and Business Forms, **republished in the 20th century under the title** Never Give a Lady a Restive Horse. **Professor Hill obviously had met his fair share of Mr. Carters.


	30. The Secrets of All Hearts

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC series Cranford, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all written by Elizabeth Gaskell. Anthony Beckett is an invention of my own.

The title of course comes from a phrase in the marriage ceremony in **The Book of Common Prayer**. Historians and liturgists, please forgive me for any liberties I've taken with the same, in this or future chapters.

And as always, thanks to my faithful readers and reviewers, and welcome to any new ones on board. I really appreciate the feedback, interest, and support.

Oh, and the next chapter should follow this one shortly.

* * *

**Chapter 30: The Secrets of All Hearts**

"Shall I take a cup of tea up to Miss Smith's room, Miss Matty?"

Miss Matty considered the question, and all the tears Mary had shed the night before. Of course there was no doubt whatever about the intentions behind Martha's inquiry. Indeed, since her lying-in, she had proven fiercely loyal towards Miss Smith, and Mary's absence from the breakfast table this morning had produced a touching anxiety in Martha. Yet Matty feared that too much solicitude might bring Mary to weep again.

Now she gave Martha a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Martha, but I do not believe that will be necessary."

"If you please, ma'am, surely she's not ill?"

"Oh, no! She is quite well. It is only that we must leave her to her rest, at least for a little while."

With that Martha went off to see to the breakfast crockery, leaving Matty to exchange an uncomfortable glance with Peter, who was smiling slyly.

"Matilda, what should Deborah say to such laxity?"

"Oh, Peter, it is not laxity! Mary was greatly agitated last night, and could scarcely be persuaded to sleep."

Peter's expression grew serious. "There is no trouble at home?"

"That is entirely the problem," said Matty with a sigh. "There _is_ trouble at home, after a fashion."

"Is it her father? The old complaint?"

"Oh, no! It is not illness. Indeed it is nothing so simple as that," said Matty, sighing once more. "And it is a matter of some delicacy."

Peter looked thoughtful. "So it is not illness," he murmured. "And yet --"

"And yet?"

"And yet I think, before this is resolved, there will be reason enough to summon a doctor." And at that Matty thought she saw just the hint of a twinkle in her brother's eye.

* * *

In time sleep had come, accompanied by dreams, and all the images and words from the previous day, and a good many others besides, seemed to remain with Mary throughout the watches of the night.

This morning she looked at her three letters again and fervently hoped that Matty's quiet reassurances should prove true, that all should seem clearer and simpler by daylight.

Mary picked up a sheet written in Clara's flowing, rather ornate script.

_...I cannot but confess myself most grievously wounded that you should form an attachment and breathe not a word of it to me or your dear Papa. You are grown so secretive since you have been away! Perhaps you are ashamed of your Irishman, and fear that we would not receive him if he called upon us. _

_If that is so then set your mind at rest, for I have given your Papa a most particular account of Dr. Marshland's appearance and manners, and since May Day the children have been full of tales of the "Marsh-man." Your father was most interested in the former, and has been exceedingly diverted by the latter._

_As to your young man's profession, why, I shall make no complaint, though I find it strange that you should be attracted by physic and not the law, especially when you are so like your Papa. But perhaps I ought not to be astonished at your choice, since you have assisted Dr. Harrison with his duties and learnt to steel yourself to the many unpleasant things that are a physician's lot..._

Sighing, Mary turned to a letter in her father's neat, precise handwriting.

_...I had thought you safe enough, my dear, when you went to live among those prim spinsters and widows, especially when it had seemed the only men about were the rector and that good old captain (whom I should know in a trice, you've written so often of him) and now Mr. Jenkyns. Yet the wolf will get into the fold and carry off the sheep. It is always so, and I ought not to have deluded myself on that account._

_But forgive me, my dear; I know your good sense would never permit you to form any hasty or imprudent attachment. Still, I must satisfy myself that I can entrust my Mary's welfare to this fellow, if indeed he means to make you an offer. But I promise you I shall not growl too much at him, once I have him in my lair, though I mean to make him know how fiercely I should protect you..._

The last letter was blotched with ink, and written in an untidy hand.

_...and so your father, like any good patriarch, has summoned me, and I'm to go to his office, no doubt to give an account of myself. I promise you, Mary, I'll be as mild and humble as you like, and say sir and if you please..._

Mild and humble! Poor Jack!

Still, she could well guess how he might fare with Papa, who doubtless had not the heart to take his play-acting too far and would, in the end, speak frankly but justly. Indeed he was too fair-minded to do otherwise.

And yet she remained unsettled this morning. Why was that? Why had she dared hope that she and Jack might be left to themselves, subjected to no meddling beyond receiving the occasional knowing smile from Mrs. Forrester, or endless cups of tea from Martha?

She looked again at the white rose Miss Matty had brought in from the garden. It was no longer merely budding but gloriously in bloom, its petals full and open, yet still fresh and delicate. Beautiful though it was, it pleased her that it was kept safe here, and not passed about to be admired, to have its tender petals damaged and bruised by clumsy hands, no matter how well-intentioned.

* * *

"It is well that we began stitching not long after the banns were read the first time!" said Miss Galindo, standing before the looking-glass as Jessie Gordon discreetly examined the fitted bodice and full skirt of the wedding dress.

"Indeed it is!" said Mrs. Gordon, smiling gently. "And I think we can be very pleased with our work. I have grown so fond of this shade of blue. What would you call it, Miss Galindo?"

"Periwinkle, I think."

"Periwinkle. It does look well with your complexion, and will be even lovelier with the lace her ladyship is providing."

"Yes, that was very kind of her," said Miss Galindo. She turned to Mrs. Gordon. "Especially as I have heard it whispered that I have never been seen wearing lace of any note."

"Such a thing to say! I would pay that no mind, Miss Galindo. Lace or no lace, you will look beautiful on your wedding day."

"You are very kind," said Miss Galindo, giving a dimpled smile. "I do hope Mr. Carter will be pleased," she added, glancing again at her reflection.

"He will," said Jessie firmly. "Though may I say it will be more for the pleasure of leading you to the altar than of at last seeing the wedding dress! I fear that men do not always take note of our efforts, Miss Galindo.

"But I dare say my own husband had no reason to admire anything I wore all those years he was courting me. Indeed I was at times in mourning," she said, bowing her head. She looked up again and added, with a shy smile, "Though that did not stop him from asking for my hand -- twice! But Father of course knew nothing of Major Gordon's intentions."

"Did he not?" asked Miss Galindo in wonder.

"No," said Jessie. "We neither of us breathed a word to him, and Father never guessed. It is strange, is it not, how frequently we cannot open our hearts to those whom we love most dearly, but rather remain silent, regardless of joy or sorrow."

"That is certainly true. I confess I have discovered as much during my brief engagement to Mr. Carter, " said Miss Galindo, adding, with a wry smile, "even though we have for the most part been wont to speak frankly with each other."

"Mr. Carter _is_ most forthright and honest," agreed Mrs. Gordon. "I know my father admires him very much, for all that it at one time appeared to me they were rivals."

At Miss Galindo's startled expression, Jessie continued, blushing, "I once thought that you might become my stepmother. It was plain that Father had a high opinion of you, and I fancied he was paying you a good deal of attention and would perhaps in time even make a proposal. But I did not see that his regard for you was that of a friend and neighbor.

"I hope you do not take offense at my speaking so frankly."

"Not at all," said Miss Galindo gently. " Your father is the kindest of men, so much so that I too at times misinterpreted his acts of neighborliness."

Jessie smiled with gratitude. "I do not feel so very foolish, then.

"But I do wish Father might marry again. Indeed I should have been delighted to see him wed you, if that had been your wish and his," she said shyly. "Then I should have known that --"

At that moment Mrs. Gordon's maid entered the room. "Miss Smith to see you, madam," she said.

Mary Smith, her face flushed, her arms full of parcels, curtsied before them. "I must beg your forgiveness for my delay." Then she looked fully at Miss Galindo, who stood there yet in wedding dress and bonnet. "Oh!" Neither Mrs. Gordon nor Miss Galindo had ever seen Miss Smith so agreeably startled.

"Miss Galindo, that is indeed a most exquisite gown. Jessie, you have outdone yourselves."

"That is very kind of you, Miss Smith," said Miss Galindo, dimpling.

"I can at once imagine you before the church door, your arms filled with flowers, " said Mary almost wistfully. "You will have roses, will you not, on the day itself?"

"I shall. Lady Ludlow has very kindly offered the finest blooms from Hanbury, and it has been so warm of late, you know, that there is no dearth of flowers."

"Miss Matty is eager to see what you will choose. A bride must have flowers, she says -- and also a pocket-handkerchief besides,"added Mary impishly, handing a little parcel to Miss Galindo. "She wished you to have these as well."

"Dear Miss Matty," began Miss Galindo, looking very much as though she might shed a few happy tears at that moment.

"But that is by no means all," said Miss Smith, turning again to her parcels. "I have brought you --"

All at once the maid returned to the room. "If you please, ma'am, Mr. Carter is here."

"Mr. Carter! Why, I thought it was too early." Miss Galindo lifted off her new bonnet and placed it in its box. "I must make haste. He is to convey me back to Hanbury --"

"Miss Galindo, it is entirely my fault that you have been delayed," said Miss Smith. "Allow me to assist you now, as I was not here to help earlier."

"And I shall engage Mr. Carter in conversation until you are ready," said Jessie, vanishing out the door, and leaving the other two ladies to prepare the wedding finery for its transfer to Hanbury.

"It is almost a shame you must lay off your gown and wrap it in tissue," said Mary, helping Miss Galindo to undo the many buttons. "It suits you very well, and you look just as a bride ought."

"That is very kind of you, Miss Smith," said Miss Galindo. "Though perhaps I am no typical bride. I dare say no one, including myself, might have foreseen this turn of events even a twelvemonth ago!"

"Did you never think to marry?" asked Mary conversationally.

"When I was a girl, yes, and of course my mother had her heart set on my doing so. But I had _such_ ideas," said Miss Galindo. She turned to Mary and smiled wryly. "I dare say Mama had more tempered notions of what a good match should be, and thought me both incautious and overly imaginative. But I knew better, of course." She rolled her eyes. "And was quite enamored of all my castles in the air." Mary smiled in understanding.

"Time had its way of humbling one, though," continued Miss Galindo. "And I do not see things as I once did."

"Still, I hope you have abandoned neither your ideals nor your imagination, Miss Galindo" said Miss Smith warmly.

"Oh, surely not," said Miss Galindo. "But my old notions of happiness seem quaint now, indeed inadequate. I could never have conjured up a Mr. Carter; he is so different from my imaginary lovers, but wonderfully so. And it is of course such a comfort that he is real," she added, with a smile so endearingly pert that her companion laughed aloud. "I much prefer my Edward, with his blunt words and good brown coat, to any hero in the pages of a novel.

"And I should not like to think," she added, all at once serious, "of what might have been if -- well, you of all people will understand at once what I mean."

"Yes," said Miss Smith softly. She bent to smooth the fabric of the wedding dress. "Miss Galindo, may I ask your advice?"

"My advice!" said Miss Galindo, pausing as she arranged the sleeves of the dress she was wearing to Hanbury. "That is indeed unusual. Of late a good many ladies have offered to advise me, but no one has sought my counsel in return."

At that Mary smiled. "I fear a bride must expect as much, especially in Cranford."

"Yes, and a good deal more besides," said Miss Galindo, returning the smile."She must also resign herself to serving as an uncommonly diverting topic of discussion."

"That is true as well, though perhaps it would be kinder to leave you and Mr. Carter in peace," said Miss Smith.

"To speak truth, I believe that without the efforts of our friends and acquaintances, I should not be marrying Mr. Carter at all," said Miss Galindo. "Indeed we should never have met, let alone come to know each other so well, were it not for -- oh, forgive me, Miss Smith. I quite forgot that you wished to ask my advice. Do put to me your question, and I shall try my best to answer."

"There is no need," said Mary softly. "I think you have already said what I needed most to hear."

* * *

"Are you thinking of your own wedding?" asked Mary as she and Jessie watched Miss Galindo and Mr. Carter depart in the direction of Hanbury Court.

"Of my own -- why, no indeed," said Jessie, who had been looking decidedly wistful. "I was just -- Mary, have you time to take tea?"

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"I should so like to speak to a friend just now."

* * *

"I am sorry, Mary."

"Jessie, there is no need to make apology."

"You must think me very silly indeed."

"I think no such thing," said Mary softly.

"I ought to be happy," said Jessie, looking very displeased with herself. "Indeed I should be grateful at all the good things that are coming to pass."

"But I do not think, Jessie, that anyone could fault you for your tears," said Mary kindly. "They are entirely natural."

"Mary, I cannot help but dread leaving Father." Jessie's tears began afresh. "First Mother, then my sister, and now I am leaving him alone in this little house. I do not know how he will bear it."

"But I am certain it comforts him greatly to know that you will be happily settled in your own home," said Mary, speaking in the reassuring tone she often employed with Miss Matty. "And you have now proved the value of his efforts with the railway. Think how happy we all shall be when the train brings your letters from Scotland, and of course you and the major and your child to visit Grandfather at Cranford."

"My child." Jessie, her tears now subsiding, looked back at her friend. "Mary, might I ask a favor of you?"

"Why, yes."

"When my time comes, will you stay with me? And will you assist Dr. Harrison when he is called?"

"Of course I will, Jessie," said Mary warmly.

"Thank you, Mary. That knowledge gives me great comfort." Jessie looked down at her teacup. "I am still very much afraid." But there was hopefulness in her eyes as she turned again to Mary. "It was not so very dreadful with Martha, was it?"

Mary smiled. "No. No, it was not so very dreadful."

* * *

"It is strange, is it not," said Laurie. "That at the very time we are to be joined together, so many people, and indeed things, should demand our attention!"

Edward glanced at her before turning his attention back to the road before them. "I hope you have no regrets, Laurie."

"Regrets?" She slipped her arm tenderly through his. "Of course I do not have regrets."

Edward turned to her again, this time to smile. "I did not mean regrets about marrying me, though of course that may be so as well! No, I meant that perhaps you might have liked a longer engagement, a grander wedding, and a honeymoon trip. Or perhaps you should have preferred to marry very simply indeed, rather than before the eyes of relatives and friends and Hanbury staff."

"I am not accustomed to such attention, nor, I dare say, are you," said Laurie. "I do not know when I have had so many people engage me in conversation! But if it is unsettling to be subjected to such scrutiny, it is heartening as well, for everyone is full of praise for your character and worth, and ready to offer me assistance and advice."

"Advice! What need have you of advice?"

"Edward, I have no mother and sisters to instruct me."

"No," he said thoughtfully. "We are both of us quite alone -- well, almost."

"Not nearly alone as you might think. A great many friends and acquaintances have been advising me."

"Many?"

"Lady Ludlow, for one. She was of course all dignity and discretion, yet nonetheless frank regarding the duties of a wife. I believe she felt an obligation to my mother to act in her stead.

"But if Lady Ludlow freely offered her counsel, I sought Mrs. Morgan's. You will of course understand why, Edward. She has twice been wed, and to physicians both times!"

"And was she helpful?"

Laurie smiled to herself. It was only with many blushes that Isobel Morgan made reply to all the questions put to her, and it was well that neither Dr. Morgan nor the housemaid had been within earshot during the conversation.

"She knows what a happy marriage is, Edward. And if she is unassuming and at times shy, she is also wise. She said I must speak to you about any worries or concerns I had --"

"That _was_ wise!"

"And she said you would understand I have not been married before, and that you would be infinitely patient and tender."

"Mm." That sounded very well.

"But of course I do not expect that."

He was taken aback. "Laurie, I --"

Then he saw she was teasing him again. "Edward, no one who knows you expects _infinite_ patience, and I confess I would be disappointed if you made no claims or demands on me, as affection dictates."

"Then I will try not to disappoint you."

"And I promise to leave you in no doubt of all I feel for you." They rode on in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.

"Mrs. Forrester said a wife must be generous in her affections, even after a quarrel, perhaps especially after a quarrel! I own I know not what to make of that."

"I do," said Edward, casting a sidelong glance at her, and drawing a blush. Perhaps Mrs. Forrester too was wiser than she had at first seemed.

"And Miss Pole says --"

"Miss Pole!" said Edward, aghast. "But she's never been married."

"Neither have I, Edward," said Laurie dryly. "Do you think that because Miss Pole has never had a husband, she ought not to have an opinion?"

"Of course not. It is only that she at times speaks more strongly than correctly."

"Besides, it would seem Miss Pole thinks quite as well of you as does Mrs. Forrester."

Edward snorted at that.

"No, it is true. Miss Pole said Harry was a credit to you."

"Did she?"

"Indeed she did. She said the boy was uncommonly improved, and that was proof enough that the ladies of the village ought to give ear to your plan for the school."

Imagine that! Perhaps Miss Pole too was wiser than she had at first seemed.

"And she said that under my tutelage you might yet temper your masculine ways."

* * *

"I do have regrets, Laurie," said Edward as they came within view of Hanbury Court.

"Do you?" said Laurie, unconsciously stroking his arm.

"Yes. I really ought to have planned better and arranged to take you away -- perhaps to the seaside, or Scotland, or even abroad."

"Edward, I do not need to make a tour, any more than I need a fashionable wedding. It is marriage to you that I desire."

"Oh, do not misunderstand me. There is no one I wish to impress but you. It is only that I should very much like for us to spend several days alone." Edward smiled to himself. "And perhaps traveling, at that. Indeed I should like someday to visit London with you, and I dare say you will make much better company than did Beckett!"

"Poor Anthony!" Laurie giggled. "Yes, I should like very much to travel with you one day. But even if we are not leaving on a wedding trip, perhaps we can make a holiday at home."

"I do not see how, when I have all my usual duties."

"I do not mean for you to neglect your duties. Indeed the both of us will have a good deal to engage us now. But perhaps we should treat home as our refuge."

Edward smiled. "I thought that was to be my study."

"Upon my word, Edward, I should have thought your office at Hanbury refuge enough for you now! Talking of which, do you recall that Sunday afternoon we spent there together? I mean after Harry left."

"I remember everything," he said, smiling again.

"It was raining, and so bitterly cold, and I could scarcely bear to step outdoors once more. You took me in your arms, and I felt as safe and warm as ever I have at any hearthside.

"And that is how I shall always think of you -- as my hearth. My refuge."

* * *

The sky was by no means cloudless sky on the day of the wedding itself, and yet there was sunshine, a good deal of it, and it was altogether as pretty a day as anyone might have wished.

Mr. Carter was up before the sun itself, and made a manful effort at the breakfast his housekeeper set out, then turned to the business of preparing to go to church. He had only just pulled on his coat when Harry Gregson, face shining from its early-morning scrubbing, boots gleaming from the blacking brush, appeared on the doorstep.

"Good lad!" said Mr. Carter. "I knew you'd arrive in plenty of time."

"Of course, sir. I promised Miss Galindo I'd see you to church."

"As if I'd lie abed this morning of all mornings! Now where is Beckett? Surely he's not going to be chasing through the village when we're all standing before the altar -- "

"Here he comes now, sir," said Harry opening the door to Anthony Beckett, who was dressed all in his best and carrying a case in his arms.

"Thank God. I'd begun to think you'd forgotten the day."

"Calm yourself, Mr. Carter. You're not to be at the church for a good while yet, and we've plenty of time to make you presentable," said Mr. Beckett, unpacking his barber's tools.

"'Presentable'? I do hope you have spectacles in that case, Beckett, for you are sorely in need of them."

"No, I can see very well what a fine coat you have on. But you must take it off -- lend me a hand with this, Harry -- and put it aside while I --"

"Beckett, I've thought the better of this. There is no need to cut my hair."

"No need? Do you mean to go to church looking like a bear?" Beckett turned again to the boy. "What do you think, Harry? Won't Miss Galindo be frightened and run the other way when she sees what is waiting for her?"

Mr. Carter fixed his eye on the boy, who could not be certain if he was seeking his opinion or daring him to speak.

"You said a man must always show a lady respect," began Harry.

Mr. Carter, recognizing defeat, sighed. "Very well. But mind you be quick about it." He surrendered his coat and allowed himself to be seated in the chair Mr. Beckett had drawn up.

"There's no need to be quick about it. We've plenty of time, and I mean to do this proper. Harry, fetch some hot water from the housekeeper, will you?" said Beckett.

"And ask Mrs. Greenfield to give you some breakfast," called out Mr. Carter.

"Thank you, sir, but I couldn't eat a thing," said Harry with a grin, before running out of the room.

"Now then, Mr. Carter, calm yourself, and we'll set to work," said Mr. Beckett, taking up a pair of scissors.

"Beckett, you must stop telling me that. I _am_ perfectly calm."

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Beckett, with a smile that suggested he did not agree.

"Indeed there is no reason to be otherwise. I'm getting wed today, Beckett, not hanged."

"Yes. Well, Dad would say the one was as sure a fate as the other! Now you must sit very still while I make you fit to be seen, let alone wed," said Beckett.

* * *

By the time Captain Brown had arrived Mr. Beckett, assisted by Harry, was more than halfway through the process of making Mr. Carter presentable, despite the bridegroom's occasional protests.

"You didn't used to be given to grumbling and growling, Mr. Carter," said Beckett, expertly wielding the razor. "I do hope you are in a better humor when you arrive at the church."

"And if you are not, we shall counsel Miss Galindo to reconsider her decision," added Captain Brown.

Mr. Carter was about to make reply, thought the better of it, and remained silent throughout the rest of the procedure, as Beckett and the captain exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

"There now, I've done my best," said Beckett at last, taking a step backwards to admire his work.

Mr. Carter turned to face to Harry. "What do you think, Harry? Am I fit to wed?"

The boy grinned. "Oh, yes, sir. Miss Galindo will like you very well indeed."

* * *

Mr. Beckett had been entirely correct; there had been more than enough time for them to make the bridegroom presentable -- and indeed to leave him more restless than before.

"I do not know why we did not think to accompany the ladies to church," said Mr. Carter now. "After all, we are on the grounds of Hanbury, and now we might simply proceed up to the house --"

"There's no sense in going over there, Carter," said Captain Brown. "They'd just send you away, if only to keep you from underfoot. Besides, you would not want to attempt it. I have confronted the enemy in battle, and I have faced a group of ladies preparing for a wedding, and I need not tell you which prospect strikes greater fear in my heart."

"I'll send Laurie a note, then," said Mr. Carter stubbornly, going for pen and ink.

"Indeed you shall not, my friend," said Captain Brown, fairly pursuing Mr. Carter into his study. "Let it be --"

"I'll take it, Mr. Carter," said Harry loyally, standing beside the desk as Mr. Carter began writing, and Captain Brown loomed over the both of them.

"Carter, if you send a note, the first thing they will think is that something is wrong," he said, very nearly reaching the limits of his patience.

At that Mr. Carter added a couple of lines to the half-page he had already completed. He paused a moment, then wrote a bit more before signing his name and briskly folding up the note. As he stood to hand the paper to Harry, he thought of something else.

"You'll bring her answer, if she writes one?"

"Of course sir." All at once Harry looked worried. "You won't go to church without me?"

"By no means!" said Mr. Carter firmly. "We'll wait for you."

"But you must make haste, Harry," said the captain, taking on some of the bridegroom's agitation.

"Go on now," said Mr. Carter, smiling softly. "And Harry --"

"Yes, sir?" said the boy, turning to look back.

"You are not to read that note. Understood?"

Harry grinned. "I wouldn't dare!"

* * *

"Laurentia, you must calm yourself." Mrs. Morgan, resplendent in mauve, hovered over the shoulder of the bride, who stood, still clad in her dressing-gown, and stared helplessly at the wedding clothes arranged carefully about the room.

"Forgive me, Isobel," said Miss Galindo. "But I do not think anyone or anything could calm me just now."

"Nonsense, Laurentia. We have only to think of the task at hand, or rather one task at a time, my dear. First your petticoats and then --"

"Will my hair suit, do you think?" said Miss Galindo, turning again to the mirror and putting a hand up to the back of her head. "I should not like to be --"

"Your hair looks very charming as it is; we must not spoil it," said Mrs. Morgan, patting her on the shoulder. "Now then, let us --"

At that moment a maidservant entered the room, curtsied before the two ladies, and offered Miss Galindo a note on a tray. "If you please, madam, this just arrived for you."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Morgan before she could stop herself. She watched as her friend seized the note, unfolded it, and began reading. "Surely it is not --"

But Miss Galindo was smiling, for all that there were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "It is from Edward, of course."

"Oh," said Mrs. Morgan, calmly this time.

"You will understand of course that I cannot read it aloud." Miss Galindo turned to the maid. "Is Harry Gregson still here?"

"If you please, madam, he said he wouldn't leave until he received your reply, if you have one."

"And I do!" said Laurie. "I must have a pen and ink, and a bit of paper."

"Laurentia, dear, there isn't time for such things," said Mrs. Morgan, uncharacteristically close to exasperation.

"Please. I must make some reply to Edward's message!"

"Very well," sighed Mrs. Morgan. "Only do make haste."

Miss Galindo was smiling to herself as she bent over the desk and began writing swiftly. With a decided flourish she signed her name, then folded up the paper.

"Give this to Harry," she said, offering her dimpled smile to the servant, along with the note. "And tell him he is not to read it!"

She turned again to Mrs. Morgan. "Well, Isobel," she said, somehow relieved and excited all at once. "Shall we attempt to make me presentable?"

* * *

They would wait outside, Mr. Carter had decided. Rather than lurking up near the altar, and trying Reverend Hutton's patience past bearing, they would assemble outdoors and await the arrival of her ladyship's carriages.

And so it was that Captain Brown, Mr. Beckett, Harry Gregson, and Mr. Carter himself were all standing in the bright May sunshine as Dr. Jack Marshland, who'd made a late start from Manchester and taken a bit of time stabling his horse, came towards the church at a run.

As flustered as he was breathless, Jack bowed to everyone, including Harry.

"What time do you call this now, Dr. Marshland?" said Captain Brown, who had recovered some of his usual good humor. "Five more minutes and you'd have been chasing the bride to the altar!"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carter," said Jack, still fairly gasping for breath.

"Now then, Marshland, there is no need to beg pardon. You've arrived just in time." Mr. Carter turned to Beckett. "Surely we can find a seat for Dr. Marshland within."

At that the captain clapped a hand on Beckett's shoulder and said in his ear, more loudly than was necessary, "One by the Jenkynses and Miss Smith, I should think, Mr. Beckett."

"Of course," said Beckett, no longer certain what was going on. He turned to the Irishman. "Follow me, sir."

* * *

Lady Ludlow and Laurentia's aunt and uncle, easily the eldest of the party that set out that morning from Hanbury, were also by far the calmest. Indeed her ladyship, if anything, was as serene as ever she'd been. It had been a good while since she'd had such cause for joy, and evidently she meant to give herself wholly to it.

Laurentia too was very happy as they made their way to the church, though her joy, unlike Lady Ludlow's, was touched with not a little agitation. And by now Jessie Gordon, Isobel Morgan, and even Dr. Morgan himself had caught some of her excitement, and had been exchanging nervous smiles during the carriage ride.

As the church came into view Laurie again felt a frisson of pleasure and fear pass through her.

And then she saw him.

He was standing with the other men, and with Harry, of course, all of them dressed in their best, but he might just as well have been alone, for she noticed neither Captain Brown's genial smile nor the wonder in Harry's eyes as he caught sight of the grand carriages. Her eyes were on Edward, dear Edward, so comfortingly familiar and yet so transformed. Indeed he looked startlingly youthful, even boyish.

He had caught sight of them now as well and for a moment stood gazing towards the oncoming carriages, then moved swiftly forward, with Captain Brown, Harry, and Mr. Beckett directly behind him. There was a little flurry of activity as the ladies were handed down. Laurie was at once aware of what seemed a great many people milling about, and then she was standing before Edward himself.

"Oh, Edward," she murmured, taking in the sight of him. He had put on a dark blue coat and waistcoat, and grey breeches, and in the late morning light he looked ruddy and vital and handsome.

For what seemed a very long time she could do nothing more but look into his eyes -- such an indefinably beautiful color they were. Then at last someone -- perhaps her uncle, maybe Dr. Morgan -- said, _sotto voce_, "I think we ought to proceed into the church."

"Wait." Laurie drew a rosebud, a delicate pink rosebud, from her bouquet and held it in her hand for a moment, then looked up again into Edward's eyes. Handing her bouquet to Jessie, she took the little rose and fastened it in Edward's lapel, her hand resting for a moment on his chest.

He laid his hand over hers. "Laurie," he said softly, his voice warm and dark. "Let us go now."

She looked up at him again. "Yes."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	31. The Lovers' Bridge

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**. The screenplay for **Cranford** was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to either Mrs. Gaskell or the BBC, and have of course departed from the canon on several points.

Many, many thanks to everyone reading/reviewing_. _Nothing raises my spirits so wonderfully as hearing from readers.

The excerpts from the marriage service were culled from **The Book of Common Prayer**.

* * *

**Chapter 31: The Lovers' Bridge**

"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it."

Many years before Miss Matty had heard her own father utter those words at the solemnization of a marriage -- not a particularly common event in Cranford -- and on that occasion she'd felt the most unpleasant sense of suspense, as though she expected the bride or groom to confess some dreadful sin as everyone stood waiting.

Today, though, she entertained no such apprehensions, given the reassuring warmth in Reverend Hutton's voice, and the hint of a gentle smile on his lips, as he guided Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo through each word of the marriage service.

"Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will." Mr. Carter's dark-hued voice had a particular warmth today as well, as though contentment had lent it additional radiance. Miss Matty had never seen him looking so pleased as he did at this moment, with Miss Galindo standing by his side.

"Wilt thou obey him," Reverend Hutton was saying now, still with the trace of a smile, "and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

At that moment Miss Matty could just see Mr. Carter's face, and to her astonishment that good, grave man smiled as well at the words, and Miss Galindo -- for she was in that instant Miss Galindo still -- dimpled up at him as she made her reply.

"I will." Her lovely voice was fully as strong and clear as her bridegroom's.

With that a little stir took place before the altar -- the bride's uncle stepping forth to give her in marriage, Reverend Hutton supervising the couple as they joined hands to recite their vows, Captain Brown drawing the wedding ring from his pocket and handing it to Mr. Carter, who placed it upon the prayer book. Miss Matty fairly held her breath as he once more took Miss Galindo's hand.

Receiving the ring from Reverend Hutton, Mr. Carter raised his eyes -- so expectant, so hopeful -- to his bride's face. "With this ring, I thee wed."

Casting his gaze downward, he guided the ring onto her finger."With my body, I thee worship."

Then, with another unexpected smile, he completed his vow. "And with all my worldly goods I thee endow." By now his bride was again smiling back at him as he added, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Miss Matty at last let out her breath as Reverend Hutton took up the prayer of blessing over the newly married couple. For several minutes she quite forgot where she was and was duly startled when all at once the rector fell silent and a lad, perhaps twelve years of age, stepped forward. Such a handsome boy, Miss Matty thought, gazing upon his pale, solemn face, with its full, deeply colored lips.

For a moment he stood there, staring down at the book before him, and his hands trembled as he sought his place.

"God be merciful unto us, and bless us," he began, "and show us the light of His countenance, and be merciful unto us." With that the boy looked up at the congregation and, at the sight of so many people, faltered in his reading of the Psalm. Then he caught Matty's eye, and she smiled and nodded her encouragement.

"That Thy way may be known upon earth, Thy saving health among all nations," continued the lad resolutely. "Let the people praise Thee, O God. Yea, let all the people praise Thee."

_Let all the people praise Thee_, Miss Matty echoed within herself.

"O let the nations rejoice and be glad, for Thou shalt judge the folk righteously, and govern the nations upon earth. Let the people praise Thee, O God. Yea, let all the people praise Thee. Then shall the earth bring forth her increase, and God, even our own God, shall give us His blessing. God shall bless us --"

_God shall bless us._

"And all the ends of the world shall fear Him. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen."

"Amen," whispered Miss Matty.

As Reverend Hutton took up his duties again and prepared to lead the congregation in the Lord's Prayer, Miss Matty saw the boy return to his place between Captain Brown and Mr. Goddard's clerk, and noticed that each man briefly put a hand on the young fellow's shoulder, as if to say, "Well done."

"O Lord, save Thy servant and Thy handmaid," the rector was praying now.

"Who put their trust in Thee," replied Miss Matty, along with the congregation. She cast another discreet glance at the bride and groom. Both kept their heads reverently bowed, but Mr. Carter had once again taken his lady's hand and was caressing it, perhaps unconsciously, as the rector and all the people offered their prayers to heaven.

* * *

Bridey had been right, thought Jack. Reverend Hutton only_ looked _stern. Despite all the solemn and ponderous things he had to say during the wedding service, he seemed pleasant enough, and certainly happy to oblige a fellow who needed a wife as sorely as did Carter.

Now the good rector had come to his sermon, and he delivered that with warmth as well, earnestly explaining that a man must love his bride as Jesus did the church, though Jack for the life of him couldn't understand why any fellow would really want to be like Jesus, not if he bothered to think what that truly meant.

The rector's analogy held up a little better, Jack thought, when it came to a bride. Many a woman _was_ like the church -- difficult to fathom, at times judgmental, and entirely too high-minded for her own good.

Not that Miss Galindo -- or Mrs. Carter, rather -- was looking either inscrutable or severe at the moment. Why, she'd a smile to charm the angels, and a pair of brown eyes as sweetly expressive as any Jack had seen. Carter had known ill luck enough for two or three men, but for all that, Jack envied him, at least at this moment, for having a lady who'd stand before the world, or at least the entire village, and promise herself to him, and look so gloriously happy doing it.

* * *

Almost from the time she could walk, Laurentia had been making curtsies before Lady Ludlow, but never had she done so with Edward at her side. There was such an appropriate symmetry in the way they paid their respects to her ladyship now, Edward gravely inclining his head, Laurentia unable to suppress a dimpled smile as she rose from her curtsy.

Lady Ludlow smiled warmly as well as she reached out to clasp the bride's hand. "I wish you both joy."

"Thank you, Lady Ludlow," said Laurie. "And may I say it is entirely through your efforts that we have begun so happily."

"Indeed we are both grateful for your many kindnesses," said Edward, just a touch shyly, "on this day and always."

"There is no need to thank me, Mr. Carter," said Lady Ludlow. "It is only fitting that you should celebrate at Hanbury. You have been such a part of its history, separately and together, and served it so well."

With that her ladyship sighed, either with contentment or melancholy -- Laurentia could not quite decide which -- and turned to watch the approaching guests, some in gigs and traps, and some on foot. She smiled, a bit faintly, then turned again to face the bride and groom.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Carter," she said, nodding at the both of them. "And so we come to the first duty of your married life."

* * *

While going through the receiving line, Miss Matty was seized by an impulse to shed tears -- quite astonishing, as she had remained dry-eyed during a most moving wedding service. Now she summoned will enough to keep her tears in check, concealing them behind her smile and the torrent of good wishes she uttered as she met the newly married couple. Indeed she found it by no means difficult to be effusive at such a moment; Mrs. Carter was fittingly radiant, and her husband, always such a reserved and dignified man, was all at once endearingly shy at finding himself in the unaccustomed position of bridegroom and host.

But it was good to be invited to share in such happiness, and to see Mrs. Carter take up her new role. Matty resolved to call upon the bride as soon as was proper. She would speak of it to Mary when they all returned home.

Dear Mary! Miss Matty watched _her_ as she met the Carters and wished them joy with her usual understated warmth. She'd had barely a minute with Mary all the morning long but had seen how the young woman concealed her own agitation as the household made preparations and set out for the church. Then it had been unclear whether Dr. Marshland's precipitate arrival had soothed Mary's nerves or taxed them still further.

If it was the latter, perhaps a little diplomacy was in order.

As she, Peter, and Mary left the Carters to greet their other guests, Miss Matty turned to Dr. Marshland. "I am so glad that you were able to attend the wedding this morning, Dr. Marshland."

The Irishman smiled broadly. "All roads lead to Cranford, Miss Matty. I'd have been here if I'd had to crawl on my hands and knees!"

Seeing Mary turn a disconcerting shade of pink, Miss Matty thought to steer the conversation in another direction. "It seems an age since we were all here at Hanbury on Twelfth Night. Such a merry evening we had then!"

"It was indeed a happy time. I'll not forget that night," said Dr. Marshland, uncharacteristically subdued, as Mary blushed more deeply.

"Though today is of course an even more joyous occasion," said Miss Matty quickly. "And we may see Hanbury to its best advantage, as her ladyship would say."

"Perhaps you do not know, Dr. Marshland," said Mary, "that in years past Lady Ludlow hosted a summer garden party. I was fortunate enough to attend the last --"

She checked herself, perhaps fearing that event held too many sad associations for the Jenkyns family. Miss Matty, touched by her tender concern, effected a rescue.

"So you did, Mary, dear," she said gently, "in that first summer you spent with us."

At that Peter took up the theme, saying to Dr. Marshland, "My sister tells me it was always quite the social event of the season."

"That was certainly true," said Miss Matty, managing a chuckle. "There was music, and there were games for the children, and of course there were the most incomparable refreshments -- even ice cream."

"It sounds grand," said Dr. Marshland.

"It was," said Miss Matty, sighing. "And indeed Hanbury is always at its loveliest in late summer, though I dare say we shall enjoy it quite as much today." She added, with a smile at Dr. Marshland, "You must take a turn around the grounds -- that is, if you are not too fatigued from your journey."

He understood her immediately. "Not in the least, Miss Matty, and I'd like nothing better than a walk just now. Perhaps Miss Smith would accompany me; she knows the estate better than I do."

"Mary, dear," said Miss Matty conversationally, "I do hope you will show Dr. Marshland the little bridge." She turned once again to the Irishman and added, with gentle enthusiasm, "One can enjoy such an exquisite prospect from there."

"Perhaps we could go now," said Dr. Marshland brightly, looking at Mary. "If you'd like," he added, with unexpected deference.

"Of course."

With that Dr. Marshland turned again to the Jenkynses. "Miss Matty. Mr. Jenkyns," he said, bowing and smiling most charmingly.

Mary, casting one last, anxious look at Miss Matty, bobbed a curtsy herself before setting off at Dr. Marshland's side.

"Well, Matilda," said Peter when Mary and her young man had gone. "That was swiftly done, though I dare say Dr. Marshland is not the sort of man who requires much encouragement."

"Oh, Peter," said Miss Matty softly. "It was not Dr. Marshland I was attempting to encourage."

* * *

"Jack, I am sorry," said Mary as soon as they were out of earshot of Miss Matty and Mr. Jenkyns.

"And why should you be sorry?" said Jack tersely.

"That you were summoned to defend your profession and prospects," said Mary, "at my stepmother's instigation, and my father's bidding."

"And where's the harm in that, Mary?"

"It cannot have been been easy for you to submit to a private interview with my father, and given his profession, I can well imagine the sort of questions he put to you."

At that Jack stopped walking and turned to look at her. "Sweet Jesus, Mary, do you think he's going to let me walk out with his daughter and not try to learn what sort of man I am? My own father would have put the fear of God into any fellow who cast a sheep's eye at one of my sisters, and I'd do as much for a daughter of mine."

"I believe you would!" said Mary. It was very much a novelty for Jack to show indignation, or indeed anger of any kind.

"And it would be a poor sort of fellow who couldn't defend himself before his -- well, give a good account of himself to another man."

"I had only hoped we might be left alone, at least for a little while longer. But not everyone is so discreet as Miss Matty and Mr. Jenkyns."

"Discreet? What are we hiding, Mary?"

"We are hiding nothing," she said. "It is just that I do not appreciate that my stepmother discusses your person and manners and profession in such a speculative fashion."

At that Jack actually chuckled. "As though she were buying a horse! Well, you may tell her I'm a grand worker, and my teeth are sound enough."

"You laugh, but I do not find her impertinence amusing."

"I'd call it curiosity, Mary, as much as anything. Mind you," he added, looking away, "she'd have an easier time of it if you'd at least written of me in one of your letters. I'd thought you liked me well enough for that."

"Liked you!" Mary stopped in mid-stride. "Jack, I thought you knew --"

He took a step closer to her and said softly, "Knew what, Mary?"

She could feel her face burning, and all at once courage deserted her. "That I would never -- that I could not bear to see you hurt in any fashion." She spoke her words tenderly enough, and yet she regretted them as soon as she saw the disappointment in Jack's face. For a moment he stood silent, then managed to summon up a smile, and said to her, as lightly as he could, "Now then, Mary, where's this bridge we're to see?"

Very deliberately she took his arm, hoping to make up for her reticence. "Not far, Jack. We're almost there."

* * *

Laurentia was patiently listening to an elderly guest -- Edward was no longer certain of her name, let alone her relation to them -- and clasping her hand. It was very nearly perverse, he thought, that on the very day a wife promised herself wholly to her husband, she should have to spend a great deal of time greeting people, accepting their good wishes and perhaps embraces, all while her new spouse stood by, smiling blandly and receiving congratulations himself and biding his time until he might draw her away. But it was always thus, and complaining should have done no good.

And why should he complain? He had lived to see this day. Indeed he was grateful to have lived to see _any_ day at all.

And today had already been so remarkable. Laurie's little love-note was resting still in his breast pocket, and if he'd been alone he'd have relished taking it out and reading it again, but really, there was no need. It was as though his memory had already captured every word she'd written to him, and would keep it always.

And then she had come to him herself, meeting him outside the church, and at that moment, at least, there had been no need to speak; the expression in her eyes was eloquence enough. But he had at last taken her into the church and, as he spoke his vows to her, willed that she would understand how deeply he meant each word. Judging by the firmness of her own replies, the sweet smiles she gave to him, and the touch of her hand on his during the ceremony, they understood each other very well indeed.

And hadn't Harry done them proud in his reading of the Psalm! He'd so wanted to be part of the wedding, and they had brought that about as well. Letting the boy assume one of the duties of Reverend Hutton's clerk would no doubt excite comment in the village, perhaps controversy, but at the moment Edward minded not a bit, and maybe it was all to the good if someone paid Harry Gregson a bit of notice.

As for Laurie, she was unused to this degree of attention herself, though she had also shown an astonishing talent at performing the duties of a bride, greeting their guests with such warmth and grace that Edward's heart was as filled with pride as it was tenderness.

He looked back at the new Mrs. Carter, who was as yet nodding and smiling as the elderly lady held forth and clung to her hand. Why was it that some women could not so much as say good morning without seizing another lady's hand and holding on for dear life?

He had very nearly formed a resolution to rescue his bride and was mulling over various believable pretexts for whisking her away when he remembered at last that the old lady had been friends with the Galindos, and now was a widow and had traveled some distance to attend dear Laurentia's wedding. In an instant he had a glimpse of a troubling vision -- coming from he knew not where -- and saw Laurie herself, eyes tightly closed, fighting back tears as Lady Ludlow clasped her hand in shared grief. Dear God, she had been so much alone, and she might well have remained alone if he had --

He shook off all dark thoughts, and glanced over at his wife, who was now saying something to her elderly friend, making her laugh. It would be better, he thought, to leave Laurie to comfort and cheer her. She'd know what to do and say. She always did.

And she knew it was a day be generous. He had not been surprised that she had decided to present each unmarried female guest with a flower upon her departure, rather than tossing the bridal bouquet or making a keepsake of it. She was by no means superstitious, she had told him, and he had approved her plan, indeed preferred it.

And he knew, as Laurie did not, that there would be yet another bouquet awaiting her, one he'd carefully placed this morning in their bedchamber at home. When at last she closed her eyes that night, the scent of flowers should surround her. Of that he was determined.

* * *

It had been warm of late, quite warm, and the air was perfumed with the scent of roses. If she closed her eyes, she could very nearly imagine it was the height of summer.

And with the sound of happy voices drifting across the lawn towards her, she could also imagine she was hosting one of her fetes of former years, and even that Septimus, smiling wryly and most charmingly, would come striding across the grass towards her.

She opened her eyes. There was no Septimus, of course; he was now abroad, though she cherished the hope he might return _this time_, this summer.

However, at this moment there was indeed a man striding across the grass towards her: Sir Charles Maulver, whom she was not particularly eager to see, on this day or any other.

"Charles," said Lady Ludlow, nodding her head gravely as he approached.

"Lady Ludlow." He bowed to her most correctly, and smiled in a fashion that ought to have seemed boyishly charming, had she not known him so well.

"It has proven a glorious day," she said, gazing across the lawn. "And a most joyous one."

"Indeed it has, my lady," said Sir Charles.

"Dear Laurentia!" sighed Lady Ludlow. "It was always my wish to see her married."

"Yes," said Sir Charles. "And I dare say her parents -- God rest their souls -- no doubt expressed the same sentiment."

"I hope I have honored their memory suitably, and done for Laurentia what they might have wished to do themselves."

"I am sure you have, my lady, in all things," said Sir Charles. "Though the match itself is perhaps not quite what they would have expected, or hoped for."

"Unexpected it may be, Charles," replied Lady Ludlow coolly. "But I dare say it might have fulfilled all their hopes."

"Forgive me, my lady. Carter is a good fellow, and I imagine Laurentia will be tolerably content --"

But Lady Ludlow had ceased to hear, and had fixed her eyes on a tall, lean youth who stood a short distance away, cap in hand, looking at her shyly yet expectantly. "Pray excuse me, Charles. There is a matter to which I must attend directly."

"James Greenfield?"

"Yes, my lady," said the boy, bowing.

"Is all in readiness?"

"Oh, yes, madam."

"Are there flowers enough? I mean not just for the sitting-room, of course, but throughout the house, indeed each room Mr. and Mrs. Carter will inhabit."

"If you please, my lady, my mother has seen to it all," said Jim Greenfield. "And when we'd done, she laughed and clapped her hands and said the mistress would surely be well pleased."

"Did she indeed?" said Lady Ludlow, a smile softening her imperious gaze.

"And she says the master doesn't know anything of it," added Jim boldly, at last allowing himself a smile of uncommon pride.

* * *

She'd taken his arm, as she had done so many times before, yet the gesture brought on shyness rather than ease, and for a moment Mary and Jack walked on in awkward silence, which she at last broke.

"I am glad that you came today, Jack."

"I gave my word, Mary, and I'd not have let anything stop me from keeping it."

"Of course not," said Mary, smiling, remembering how he'd announced his willingness to crawl on his hands and knees to return to Cranford. It was well that Miss Matty was of such a mild and accommodating disposition, given the sort of things Jack was wont to say. She could only imagine how discomfited Deborah might have been, had she been subjected to Jack's free and easy manners alongside Captain Brown's. Indeed it might have proven more than she could endure.

"Besides, I wouldn't have missed this day," Jack was saying now. "Not when I might behold a miracle for myself."

"A miracle!" Mary raised her eyebrows, amused. "Do you think it a miracle that Mr. Carter should want to marry Miss Galindo?"

"Not at all. Any man with two eyes in his head can see her worth."

"So perhaps the miracle is that _Miss Galindo _should want to marry Mr. Carter," said Mary speculatively.

"Well," said Jack, "he's not the sort of man I'd imagine she'd like."

Mary again smiled to herself, thinking of Miss Galindo's hard-won wisdom on the subject of lovers. "Perhaps not at first, Jack, but I dare say that once she knew him better, she found him wonderful, in his own way. And moreover the ladies in Cranford are by no means blind to his excellent qualities, and perhaps envy the new Mrs. Carter, though they dare not reveal as much."

"The ladies all held their peace, didn't they, when the rector asked for objections to the marriage," said Jack, chuckling as he saw the look that crossed Mary's face.

"You are too ungenerous to Mr. Carter," she said primly.

"Not at all. I think him a better man than myself."

"A better man?" said Mary. Now he had truly sparked her curiosity.

"Or perhaps a cleverer."

"Cleverer! Mr. Carter is a very intelligent man, Jack, but surely his abilities are by no means superior to your own."

"No?" said Jack, glancing at her. Looking away again, he added, "And yet he found the words, didn't he, to make Miss Galindo accept him."

"I do not think it was because of his words," said Mary, very softly.

"No?"

"No. Mr. Carter is a very plain-spoken man, Jack, not the hero of a romance. And I think Miss Galindo -- or Mrs. Carter, rather; I must accustom myself to saying her new name -- prefers him so."

"Does she now?"

"You sound astonished."

"I am," he said. "But then why should a fellow like me know what pleases a lady?"

"Do you think that is such a great secret?" asked Mary, a little smile crossing her lips.

"Isn't it?"

She and Jack had come to the bridge, and as if by unspoken agreement, both of them sat down to rest on the stonework.

"You are not enjoying the 'exquisite prospect,' Dr. Marshland," she said demurely, realizing that his eyes were as yet fixed on her face.

"On the contrary," he said, beaming back at her. "I've not seen a sight to equal it in my life.

"But we were talking of secrets, Miss Smith."

"Were we?"

"And how to please a lady."

Mary smiled to herself, and gazed across the water. "There is no secret there, Jack."

"Isn't there?"

"No indeed. You simply ask her what she wants."

* * *

There was no formal wedding breakfast as such, but refreshments were plentiful and varied, much as they had been in the days of Lady Ludlow's garden parties, though there was on this occasion no ice cream to be had. Privately Mr. Carter had assured Harry that with time and progress, ice cream should become as common as cheese, to be eaten very nearly as often. Harry, for his part, suspected too much happiness had muddled Mr. Carter's wits. Ice cream whenever they wanted! He'd never see that.

Ice cream or no ice cream, the guests were all very contented with the arrangements, and at length settled into small groups about the lawn and terraces.

Miss Matty grew steadily more anxious, however, when Mary and Dr. Marshland did not return from their walk. She understood very well that the two of them needed leisure and privacy enough to talk, and that there was nothing improper in their doing so, but it seemed most unkind to deny them the pleasure of such delightful refreshments, especially after Dr. Marshland's journey from Manchester that morning.

Leaving Peter deeply engaged in conversation with the bridegroom and Reverend Hutton, Miss Matty quietly set out across the lawn and towards the trees. She could not help but think of Lady Ludlow's last garden party, nearly two years ago now, and of the bustle and agitation of that day. The fete had in itself been most delightful -- indeed even Deborah had pronounced herself uncommonly well pleased with the refreshments -- but what had come afterward Miss Matty did not care to think about, and she again felt her sister's absence most keenly, and regretted that Deborah had not been there to greet Peter on his return home.

Now Miss Matty approached the trees and thought once more of the garden party, of the little children and their games, and especially of young Walter Hutton. "Thank you very much, Miss Matilda!" he'd said, looking up at her from beneath the brim of his cap, as she'd given him his prize. He'd been so innocently happy in that moment, and she couldn't have imagined what lay in store for him, and for Deborah, that very night.

Miss Matty stepped beneath the shade of the trees, and at once another image from that day entered her mind: Mr. Holbrook, hat in hand, walking slowly up to her. "Miss Matilda Jenkyns?" He'd reached out his hand to clasp hers, and for a moment they'd stood merely gazing at each other. Perhaps it had been on this very spot.

They had spoken of health and happiness, and of Deborah, as though the history of thirty years might be overtaken with a few inconsequential words. Then he had excused himself, bowing slightly, and turned and walked away from her, setting out towards the little bridge that lay --

The bridge. Matty looked over and now saw Mary perched on one side of it, and beside her was Dr. Marshland. They had not seen her, and she gathered it would be very wrong to disturb them at this moment. Dr. Marshland had his arm about Mary's waist, and Miss Matty immediately recalled May Day, and Miss Galindo and Mr. Carter in the sitting-room.

She turned around, meaning to proceed directly back towards the house, then decided instead to remain beneath the shade of the trees, the better to collect her thoughts before returning to Peter.

She had wished for this moment, indeed done her part to make it come about, and yet now, confronted with evidence of her success, she was overcome with loneliness, indeed fear.

Surely that was wrong. Mary ought to go to her own home and be happy, and not remain all her days with an old bachelor and spinster, receiving calls and tying up preserves and walking arm in arm to church of a Sunday. It would be selfish to keep her in Cranford.

For a moment Matty could not help but remember that she herself might have accepted Mr. Holbrook and lived out her days at Woodley, had she not been persuaded it would have been selfish to do so. Yet even now she knew that had she been able to return to her younger self and receive Mr. Holbrook's proposal a second time, her answer should have been just the same. It should not have been in her power to avert the heartbreak with Peter, or to will her mother strength enough to endure that sorrow alone, and it had been love, not coldness, that had formed her answer, for all that it had very nearly broken her own heart.

And she and Mr. Holbrook _had_ met again. Oh, there had been such tenderness in his voice when he spoke to her, and an almost boyish delight in his eyes when he'd at last paid a call, bringing the primroses he knew would please her. They'd had those brief days, the memory of which she'd stored among the treasures of her heart, and she'd kept his letters and even his silhouette. She'd not forget him, and perhaps he would even be waiting for her when she closed her eyes the final time.

But never again would anyone bring her flowers, not till she lay beneath the sod in the churchyard at Cranford. Of that she was certain.

* * *

Edward was listening to Mr. Jenkyns give Reverend Hutton an account of Indian wedding customs when he saw Laurie out of the corner of his eye. She was exchanging a word or two with the little Hutton girls, and presenting them each with a flower, before turning to her elderly friend and selecting a rose from her bouquet to give to her.

The sight of Laurie with her arms filled with roses filled him with affection and desire in nearly equal measure, and he decided then and there he must be alone with her. Taking advantage of a moment when Mr. Jenkyns finally drew a breath, Edward excused himself. "I must see to my bride."

He intercepted Laurie before she could wander away from him again. "Is something wrong, Edward?" she said as he slipped his hand beneath her elbow.

"Not at all," he said in a low voice. "Though I do think it odd we have hardly seen each other since we arrived at Hanbury."

"That is not in the least odd, Edward, given the attention we owe our guests, some of whom have come such a long way," she replied. "Though I will confess myself well pleased to be in your company. If I am not mistaken," she added, with an endearingly mischievous smile, "you are the gentleman I married this morning."

He chuckled. "I believe so."

"I thought you were; you are fully as handsome as he."

"Beckett will be grateful that his efforts were not in vain. And Harry confided to me that he thought you would like me very much."

"Harry was right about that. But then, isn't Harry right about nearly everything? Though I should say the word 'like' is too modest in these circumstances.

"Where are we going, Edward?"

"I thought we might take a turn around the grounds, have a moment to ourselves." And there was no other way he might get a proper kiss.

"I fear I am neglecting our guests, Edward."

"Not if you are obeying your husband."

* * *

It was cool in the shade of the trees, but there was no place for them to sit. He had not thought far enough ahead. Ah, well, there was always the bridge.

But as they came to the edge of the grove of trees a surprise awaited them.

"Damnation." The word escaped his lips almost before he knew it, and he felt his face burning as he turned to Laurie. "I had thought we would be safely alone."

Laurie glanced towards the bridge, where Miss Smith and Dr. Marshland were sitting side by side, evidently deep in conversation, and looked back at Edward. "You must admit it is as fine place as any for sweethearts to meet."

"That was precisely what I thought!" He placed a hand in the small of her back and guided her towards the trees, away from the brook.

Laurie giggled. "Do not begrudge Miss Smith and Dr. Marshland their meeting place. Indeed I hope it brings them fully as much good fortune as it has us."

"I thought you were not superstitious."

"Not in the least. It is only that I am uncommonly fond of that bridge. Do you not recall that day in February when you called out to me as I was leaving Hanbury?"

"I remember everything."

"Your voice reached me just as I was crossing the bridge, and in that moment my fate was sealed."

"Hm." He paused under a tree and turned to look at her. "Not in my office, then?"

"Your office?" She blushed prettily, for all that she was still smiling, and he took her by the shoulders and drew her towards him.

"On that Sunday afternoon," he murmured, looking into her uptilted face. "You told me I was very persuasive --"

"Oh!"

At the unexpected cry both Carters looked around. Miss Matty Jenkyns, one hand raised to her lips, had stumbled upon their new trysting place, and at that moment it should have proved a challenge to determine which of the three of them was blushing the most furiously.

"Do forgive me," she said, chuckling with embarrassment. "I had thought to look for -- that is, I had meant to take a walk through the grove. It is such a pleasant day," she added unnecessarily.

"It is indeed a most beautiful day," said Laurie, smiling sweetly, as though Miss Matty had not interrupted her first proper embrace with her husband.

"And a most joyous one," said Miss Matty warmly.

"It is that," said Edward, nodding politely.

"Yes," said Laurie, stepping towards Miss Matty. "I dare say my husband and I are grateful that so many good friends have come to share in it." She removed a white rose from her bouquet. "Would you accept this from us, in honor of the day?"

"Oh!" said Miss Matty softly, taking the flower in her hand. She gazed at it for a moment, and Edward saw there were tears in her eyes. But she smiled as she looked up again at them. "Thank you, Mrs. Carter. I do wish you both every --"

But she never completed her wish, for at that moment the three of them were joined by Miss Smith and Dr. Marshland, both them so energetic, and in such a good humor, that Miss Matty quite forgot what she had been saying. But she no doubt saw, as Edward did, that Miss Smith held tightly to the Irishman's arm, and he had placed his other hand over hers, as though determined to keep her by his side.

* * *

As they all walked back towards the house, Edward deliberately slowed his pace, the better to allow Dr. Marshland, Miss Smith, and Miss Matty to go a little ahead of them.

Laurie, for her part, took his arm and murmured, "It is always so, even on our wedding day."

"What is always so?" he asked quietly.

"That we should be interrupted," she whispered, with mock annoyance.

He chuckled at that, and rolled his eyes. It would not always be so. Of that he was determined.

* * *

"You will not say anything?" said Mary to Miss Matty, _sotto voce_, as soon as they were safely out of earshot of the Carters.

"Of course not, Mary, dear," replied Miss Matty, though she looked uncertain as to just what she was promising.

"It's just that Mary wanted you to be the first to know," began Jack.

"Oh!" cried Miss Matty. "Do you mean --"

Mary slipped her free arm through Miss Matty's, the better to keep her from stopping in her tracks, and inadvertently revealing all to the Carters. "Yes, we are engaged." At that Matty gave a little gasp of delight, for all that she was holding back tears.

"Oh, Mary, dear --"

"But you will understand why I wish no one else to know of it, not even Mr. Jenkyns," said Mary. "I owe that deference to Miss Galindo -- I mean Mrs. Carter."

"Of course," said Matty.

"There will be time enough to speak freely of it on another day."

"Yes," said Miss Matty happily. "Yes. There will."

* * *

She had never before embraced Lady Ludlow, not truly, and Laurentia was at once conscious of lace tickling at her cheek, the cameo brooch at her ladyship's throat, and a delicate scent to which she could give no name.

"Oh, my dear," said Lady Ludlow, drawing back, her hands still on Laurentia's shoulders. "God bless you."

At that Laurentia could make no reply, but impulsively hugged her friend once more before turning to Edward. He was looking boyishly shy once again, and she gave him an affectionate smile as he reached out a hand to her as she stepped into the carriage.

They must go home by carriage, and not in the gig. Her ladyship had insisted.

At that moment Laurentia, happy though she was, again felt unequal to the duties of a bride, for there was one more ceremony they must face as the Hanbury staff and many of the remaining guests gathered round the carriage, and Mr. Hopkins, who had a pleasant baritone voice, led them all in song. He'd written the verse himself, and set it to an old Welsh tune, a song Edward might have whistled from memory, and that she had not known at all until this day.

"May you always live contented,

May your hearts be filled with joy --"

Laurie smiled as brightly as she was able, though she felt herself blushing, and clung to Edward's arm. He placed a comforting hand over hers and smiled back at her, and then at his staff. He was proud of them, she knew, and grateful for the kindness and warmth with which they'd been treated.

And then, as the last notes of the song faded, there was the briefest pause before a cheer went up, and the carriage lurched forward. They were on their way home at last.

* * *

She had given away all of her blooms, and yet there in Edward's lapel was the little pink rosebud she had placed there this morning, the rose Lady Ludlow had given to her and she in turn had given to Edward. The last of her flowers. She reached out her hand and gently touched the little rose.

Laurie felt his fingers close over hers, and she looked up into his eyes, which gleamed at her like gemstones, and she impulsively leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. There was, after all, no one to interrupt them here, and the coachman faced resolutely towards the road.

As they rode home, the sky began to open, the rain coming on gradually, and Laurentia felt the droplets tickling her nose and cheeks.

"It is well you are not superstitious," Edward murmured in her ear. He slipped his arm about her shoulders.

"Not at all," said Laurie. "Indeed the rain seems a blessing!" She joyously tilted her face up to the sky, shutting her eyes tightly and welcoming the raindrops against her face.

But she only sat thus for a moment, for in very little time they were home, and Edward was stepping down from the carriage. He still cut quite a dashing figure in his wedding clothes, and Laurie had to smile to herself, remembering her mother's entirely sensible advice on suitors, and thought how Mama's most cherished notions concerning love and marriage ought to have been confounded by the very existence of Edward Carter.

"Mrs. Carter," Edward was saying now, reaching out a hand to her as she stepped down from the carriage. The rain was at last falling in earnest, and they both moved quickly into the house, where Mrs. Greenfield, the housekeeper, made them welcome and promised them tea in the sitting-room, as soon as they should make themselves at home.

Edward opened the door of the sitting-room and Laurie drew her breath in sharply. All about them were bouquets of the most exquisite flowers -- above all, Hanbury roses, in myriad colors -- and their scent perfumed the room.

She whirled around to face her husband. "Edward, it is like a paradise," she said, smiling with delight.

He was standing there, fully as astonished as she, and gazing about the room. "Welcome home, Mrs. Carter," he said at last, slipping his arms about her. "Welcome home."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	32. This Have I Done for My True Love

The following was inspired by the BBC's **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and have taken all manner of liberties with the canon.

Many thanks to everyone who is faithfully following this story, especially everyone posting reviews and offering encouragement. Hearing from you means a great deal to me.

And special thanks to Siggy for giving me the go-ahead to include a scene astonishingly similar to one in chapter 24 of the **Ashes to Ashes** fanfic "The Rage of Angels." I swear neither of us knew what the other was writing an ocean away, or how Gene Hunt and Edward Carter are, at times, thinking as one man...

* * *

_"Every moment of their lives is a life-giving to one another." _-- Caryll Houselander, **The Reed of God**

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* * *

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**Chapter 32:** **This Have I Done for My True Love**

"I do believe it rained all throughout the night, Edward," said Laurie, looking out the window.

"It did," said Edward, in the midst of putting away his razor. "I heard rain against the roof and windows well into the night. Did it wake you?"

"Once or twice, but the sound was comforting, and I drifted back to sleep. Indeed it is always so," said Laurie in a low voice. "Especially when I am cozily indoors, and all is well.

"What is it, Edward?"

He was as yet gazing at her, and smiling. "I hope you had pleasant dreams."

"Oddly, I remember no dreams." She turned to look out the window once more. "But the world itself seems a very pleasant place this morning," she said, sighing. "So lush and green."

"You look wonderful yourself," said Edward, almost shyly.

"Though hardly tidy," murmured Laurie, watching her husband as he buttoned his waistcoat.

"It suits you," said Edward, looking back at her.

The night before Laurie had unpinned her hair, then plaited it in a loose braid, and this morning she looked endearingly girlish and decidedly less prim. On rising she'd wrapped herself in a green dressing gown and unobtrusively watched, even assisted as Edward made his preparations for the day. Now she was standing at their bedroom window, where she could look out at the falling rain, and in the soft light she was as lovely as ever he'd seen her.

"It suits you very well indeed," he said softly, as she blushed at his words.

Laurie made no reply but went to pick up his brown coat and then helped him into it, easing it over his shoulders, and when he turned round to face her, she swiftly moved to do up the buttons. As soon as she'd finished he caught her hands in his and raised them to his lips, planting kisses on her fingers.

"I wish I could remain with you today," he said, putting his arms about her as she rested her hands on his chest.

She smiled at that and twined her own arms around his neck, slipping her fingers into his hair as he bent to kiss her.

"That must be the scent of your shaving soap."

"It does not bother you?"

"Not at all, Edward," she said, playfully kissing his chin. "With time it will be comfortingly familiar."

"Well, it is a ritual – shaving, that is -- to be endured each morning."

"Perhaps now there will be another ritual to follow it," she said, advancing from his chin to his lips. After another kiss she rested her head upon his shoulder. "I shall accustom myself to all your daily rituals," she murmured against his throat.

"But I do not expect you to spend your days waiting upon me."

"I understand that, Edward, but I want you to feel ease, indeed comfort, when you are at home."

"And I do. But there are things to engage you beyond stitching buttons on my coat, or making puddings."

She raised her head and looked up into his face. "And yet I am not too proud to call at the butcher's, or black your top boots for you."

"No." It was his turn to give her a teasing kiss. "You are not. But your first task is to make yourself completely at home, as mistress of this house."

"At present I feel I'm more a guest in the house than its mistress. It is as though I were taking a holiday!"

"Perhaps it is better that way. Come, let us breakfast together."

"But I have not dressed, Edward."

He paused to study her from head to foot, as though genuinely astonished to discover she was still in her dressing gown, then smiled. "But you are on holiday, Mrs. Carter. Come."

* * *

_Largs, Ayrshire_

_Tuesday_

_My sweet Jessie,_

_Your letter arrived this past hour, and I could not rest until I took up my pen to write to you. However many miles lie between the two of us this day, my thoughts are all of you, my brave lass, and of our child. _

_Things are very nearly in readiness here. The men have at last completed the work on the roof and made many other improvements besides, and I am quite contented with the results, though this is yet a lonely, empty place without you in it. But it will be a snug house, Jessie, and bright and cheerful within, when we are here together, even when the winter winds begin to blow._

_There is no need to talk of winter now, though, not in summer, when we have such plans. I shall come to you soon, and well before your time arrives, only you must look after yourself in these last weeks, and not spend a moment worrying. Dr. Harrison is a clever man, and a kind one, and will attend to you properly, and I dare say you may apply to our good neighbors as well for further advice and help. Indeed it comforts me to know that Miss Matty and Miss Smith watch over you quite as much as does your own father. Give them, and of course Mr. Jenkyns, my kindest regards._

_Before you know it I shall return to Cheshire, and then I shall look after you, and you must have your turn to bid your father and me do this and go there, and see to everything for you and the child. We are rough soldiers both, and yet I hope we prove gentle enough with the wee stranger, once he -- or she, of course – has come to us._

_God keep you, my dear._

_Your loving husband,_

_Robert_

_

* * *

_

Laurie was alone once more in what was now their room_. _Set on the table before her was the bouquet Edward had placed there the previous morning. It had greeted her when first she entered the bedchamber, and again when she opened her eyes in the morning.

She leaned towards the flowers and breathed in their scent. Lady Ludlow had of course arranged something far grander in those Hanbury roses arrayed throughout all the rooms, their soft colors and heady fragrance pervading the house. It was delightful, indeed dreamlike, and yet Laurie was pleased as well by the simple eloquence of Edward's bouquet.

But then theirs had always been a friendship nurtured by wordless messages. She thought again of the fleeting smiles he'd given her during their first acquaintance, the gem-like gleam of his blue eyes. He had then seemed so stern and, she had to confess, powerfully, intimidatingly masculine.

Yet she had from the first neither feared nor disliked him, indeed had always sensed his decency, even before the day she was brought into his office and truly into his life. All that came afterwards, and most especially everything he did for Lady Ludlow and for Harry, served only to strengthen her impression. Edward concealed it very well beneath his reserve, but Laurie was not deceived; his was a warm heart, sound and true, and tenderer than anyone in Cranford or even at Hanbury might have known.

She'd seen that again when he'd approached her at her old rooms, bringing what should prove the first of his bouquets. Under any other circumstance she ought to have found his strength, his very presence disconcerting, and yet his unspoken shame and desire to make amends had moved her heart. Up till then she had already enjoyed teasing him, indeed taken wicked pleasure in his discomfiture, but on that occasion she put her wits to kinder use, playfully warning him that the flowers might stain his cuffs, thus saving his pride as he handed over the bouquet, and sealed their reconciliation and their friendship.

_Oh, Edward._ Laurie felt tears stinging her eyes, for all that she was smiling now, and she reached out a hand to touch the delicate, fragrant petals of the flowers before her. She had not expected this latest gesture from him, nor could she have envisioned Lady Ludlow's more extravagant gift. If her offering made Edward's modest by comparison, it mattered not, for each was informed by love.

These were only the first days of their marriage, and in time such festive scenes must be displaced by other, more ordinary rituals, though perhaps no less tender and a good deal more meaningful. There should be frosts and winter winds, yet also the warmth of the hearthside and the sound of Edward's voice. And whatever her husband's current protestations, she would look after him, make a home for him, as he had already done for her.

She turned away from the bouquet and her eyes fell on a little parcel resting on her pillow. She had not noticed anything there before; Edward must have slipped it into place while they had been standing together, and had not so much as drawn her suspicion. In that it was a double surprise.

She picked up the parcel and smiled, realizing at once what it must be, and removed the paper to find a small book with a blue cover, and a note from Edward.

_Dear Laurie,_

_I am certain you must recall that evening last autumn when we were the guests of Captain Brown, and of Major and Mrs. Gordon..._

Yes, she did remember that evening, and the songs and stories and talk, and even the moments when she -- and indeed poor Miss Matty -- had been moved to tears.

_I should like to remember that evening always, Laurie, for it was then that we began to know each other a good deal better than we might have done..._

On that occasion she and Edward had had those few minute of private conversation, and then taken turns reading aloud to the company...

_Do you remember how we read aloud to the company, and how Major Gordon sang while Mrs. Gordon played? I saw that you enjoyed the verse, and surely the music as well._

_And so when a brief visit to the bookseller's yielded this little volume, it seemed fully intended for you. I do not know whether you have any particular fondness for Burns, and yet now when anyone speaks of him I shall always recall that night. Perhaps it will be so for you. _

_Of course his is at times a wicked wit, Laurie, but I dare say that may please you very well indeed! I cannot fault him, though, for the sentiments expressed in the songs Major Gordon sang. Just now I can neither recall their names nor quote them from memory, but each spoke of love and faithfulness, did they not... _

What was it that the major had sung? She too could recall neither the tunes nor the words, and yet she had no doubt of the themes...

_Laurie, I can make for you neither verses nor song, and yet I will offer my heart always into your safekeeping, and would take yours into mine._

_Edward_

She gently opened the little book to the page which held the portrait of Robert Burns, and smiled at the image before turning over a few more leaves to read the titles of poems and songs, and smile again, this time at the truth of Edward's observation about the poet's sense of humor.

The title "To a Kiss" sparked her interest, and she turned to the appropriate page and read what was there, her expression changing all the while, ending at last with a knowing smile, as though Edward and she were at that moment sharing a very private secret.

* * *

He had a kind word for everyone that day, even caught himself whistling, and when Hopkins came to impart news of some minor disaster, Edward received it calmly and indeed assured the poor rattled fellow that all would be well.

In truth Edward had never felt more alive, more himself than this morning. It was not that he had slept particularly soundly -- indeed he had awakened in the night, perhaps from the sound of rain against the windows, perhaps from a dream he could no longer remember, or perhaps when Laurie stirred in her sleep -- and yet he had felt nothing but contentment. The rain had been falling against the house, and at the same time he could hear Laurie beside him, drawing every breath softly and evenly, and he had known all was well. All was truly well.

* * *

A wedding was a rare enough event in the village, and yet even such a momentous occurrence as the union of the manager of the Hanbury estate with the village milliner could not leave the ladies of Cranford so flustered that they shirked their old customs and habits. Indeed it was an occasion to rally, and to gird one's loins.

It was an occasion to pay calls.

Among the first of the new Mrs. Carter's visitors were Miss Matty and Mary Smith, and she received both with warmth and grace, and a degree of pride detectable only to a very practiced eye. Later Miss Matty was heard to remark that the bride was fairly glowing with good spirits, and no doubt contentment in her modest but charmingly appointed home.

The ladies spent a few minutes on pleasantries, and sincere admiration of Mrs. Carter's sitting-room, as yet decorated with vases of the most exquisite roses, before talk turned to other matters.

"I am so pleased that you have come today," said Mrs. Carter. "We had but a moment or two to speak on my wedding day."

"But there were many guests then, Mrs. Carter," said Miss Matty, her blue eyes twinkling. "And you were so attentive to us all. Indeed it was a lovely day, and a most beautiful celebration."

"Thank you, Miss Matty."

"I am certain I shall never forget it," said Miss Smith warmly.

"Nor, I dare say, shall I, Miss Smith! But you may be astonished to hear me say that perhaps it is well that my husband and I did not leave on a honeymoon trip following the wedding. Indeed it is curiously comforting that life continues here just as it did before."

Miss Matty chuckled. "It is all go in Cranford."

"One may rely upon that! Still, if we must see to our duties, at least we are among friends."

At that Miss Smith smiled, and her two companions noted well the gleam in her eyes as she asked, "Would you say then, Mrs. Carter, that friendships are a source of strength to a married couple, rather than a distraction?

"It is too early, Miss Smith, for me to make any such pronouncement," said Mrs. Carter. "But I suspect that is true. Our friends have already shared greatly in our joys and sorrows."

"It is always so with true friends," said Miss Smith.

At that Miss Matty could remain silent no longer. "Mary, dear," she prompted gently. "Perhaps you should like to convey your own news."

"News? That is most intriguing." Mrs. Carter turned expectantly to Miss Smith.

Miss Smith smiled and demurely lowered her gaze for an instant, not coyly but as though happy to surrender a secret at Miss Matty's bidding. "Mrs. Carter, I must tell you that Dr. Marshland and I are engaged to be married."

"Oh, Miss Smith," said Mrs. Carter with warmth. "I do wish you both every happiness."

"Thank you," said Miss Smith, adding, "You do not seem in the least astonished."

"I confess I am not, though I am delighted."

"So are we all," said Miss Matty, with an endearing chuckle.

"I suppose I cannot expect that the engagement will take all our acquaintance by surprise," said Miss Smith.

"Surely not, Mary, dear," said Miss Matty kindly. "One ought not to expect that."

* * *

_Liverpool_

_Monday Evening_

_Dear Jack,_

_It's a fine thing indeed to make a man of medicine doubt his own eyes, and even his good sound mind. But what else could I do when I read that Jack Marshland has found a girl who will accept him? Such talk there will be at Guy's when the report makes its way to London!_

_I can only imagine that you made an offer to every woman whose spectacles you prescribed, and it fell upon Miss Smith to take pity on you. But it's a great service she's done us all, Jack, putting an end to your complaints and sacrificing herself for the greater good. She must be an uncommonly patient girl if she is prepared to take you for her husband. I mean to see it for myself when she does, and as well hold your firstborn on my knee. With any luck he'll be fully as handsome as his mammy._

_But no more of that now. Convey my best wishes, and condolences, to Miss Smith on the occasion of your engagement, and may we all meet soon._

_Your bachelor comrade_

_Martin McDevitt_

_

* * *

_

_Edinburgh_

_Friday Evening_

_My dear Jack:_

_So you have at last met with success, and I congratulate you most heartily. I can only hope that you will endeavor to deserve Miss Smith, and that the good Lord grants her a generous measure of patience for the task she has set herself._

_I promise I shall move heaven and earth to come to your wedding and therefore rejoice that it is not taking place at once, lest present duties keep me from attending._

_Did I say duties? No, not duties alone; I have of late met with a Miss Patterson, a bonny young woman, and a clever one, and hope to tell you more of our acquaintance in due course. _

_But no more of that; it's on account of your own good fortune that I write, and ask you to accept the heartfelt wishes of your most faithful friend_

_Alan Ferguson _

_

* * *

_

Laurie was seated at her little writing desk, occupied with correspondence to various wedding guests, and looked very much as she did, Edward thought, when they worked together in his office. Even now he loved stealing glances at her whenever she was absorbed in a task and unaware he was watching. Her profile was all womanly sweetness, from the graceful curves of her face to her gleaming hair, drawn smoothly back and prettily arranged above the nape of her neck.

But then, she'd always been a distraction quite as much as a helpmeet, and it was a miracle he managed to do any work at all.

"You were not caught in the rain when you were out and about today?" he said now.

She paused in her writing to look across at him. "Only briefly, Edward, and still I was able to accomplish all I set out to do. I even took the opportunity to examine those buildings of which you spoke."

"And what did you think?"

"I have not seen them inside as well as out, of course, but I am hopeful that one should prove suitable for the school, and they are both in such an agreeable location."

"Yes, I thought as much -- not too far to walk for the little ones. But you must have done a great deal of walking yourself today, my love, and it has been so wet of late and, I dare say, muddy."

"But it is so pleasantly cool and green out of doors, Edward," said Laurie. "And you know how fond I am of walking."

He smiled. "Indeed I do. Did you go through the woods?"

"I did, and through town as well, where I was startled to be addressed as 'Mrs. Carter.' I must accustom myself to the new name."

"Then it is best to begin practice immediately."

"I thought so." She bent her head over her desk once more, writing slowly and deliberately, before she spoke again.

"It has as well been a revelation to see the respect I am accorded as Mrs. Carter," she said, not raising her eyes. "Mrs. Jamieson was being conveyed past me in her chair, and she bade the men stop, whereupon she nodded and smiled, and very politely inquired after your health."

At that Edward felt his jaw clenching and his brow tightening, but he kept silent and let Laurie continue.

"And Mrs. Johnson greeted me very civilly, and was all solicitude when I made a few purchases. Indeed she sought my opinion as to what might be lacking at the store, and as well offered to send word when the new fabrics arrive from Manchester.

"Then she held forth at length on how the railway should prove a godsend to her and her husband, and their custom."

At that he could hold his tongue no longer. "Mrs. Johnson, Laurie, is very like the toothache -- to be endured patiently but only as long as necessary. As for Mrs. Jamieson, she would do well to treat her fellow man with one fraction of the care she expends on that spoilt dog of hers."

Laurie smiled at that, for all that there were tears welling in her eyes.

"You must not mind what they say," he said softly.

"But Mrs. Forrester is as friendly as ever she was," continued Laurie, sniffing slightly. "Indeed she very kindly invited me to take tea with her and some of the other ladies. I suppose we shall practice elegant economy -- bread and butter and perhaps cake must serve our needs -- but I dare say it will be pleasant to sit with Mrs. Gordon and Miss Pole and --"

"And gossip," added Edward. The opportunity to tease her had simply been too tempting.

"I expect so, Edward! Still, I am persuaded that the invitation was issued in part because Mrs. Forrester is uncommonly curious as to how I shall get on as Mrs. Carter. I dare say she would have gladly accepted your proposal, had I proven unkind --"

Edward snorted at that, but he _would_ feel a smile slowly working its way across his face.

"-- and I shall do my best to prove myself worthy of you."

She was teasing, of course, but only just barely. Edward put down his newspaper. "On the contrary, Mrs. Forrester surely knows it is my good fortune that you accepted me."

"She _is_ a kind soul, and has always accorded my father's memory a degree of respect."

"Laurie, I did not mean that Mrs. Forrester is mindful that I married a baronet's daughter," said Edward.

"I know you did not," she said in a low voice, never raising her eyes from her correspondence.

"Laurie --"

At last she looked up at him.

"I do consider myself most richly blessed."

"As do I."

He made no reply to that but watched as she signed her name to the letter she had been writing.

"Is that the last for this evening, then?" he said, as casually as he could manage.

At that Laurie looked up again and smiled. "If you'd prefer, Edward," she said, folding the paper. "It can be."

* * *

He woke to rain again early the next morning -- he knew not the hour; his watch was out of reach, and the light as yet too dim for him to read the little clock -- but it was very early indeed. He looked over at Laurie, who lay curled beside him, her hands drawn up beneath her chin, her eyes shut, fine lashes dark against delicate skin. Her hair – he'd asked her not to braid it last night -- tumbled over her throat, her shoulders, even over the pillow.

All was still, and he could hear each breath she drew, and he felt peace as never before in his life, and yet at the same time anticipation. He could not decide whether to lie there and watch her sleep or indulge an impulse to touch her, to kiss her, to wake her. Perhaps he might --

"Edward. Edward. My love, do wake up."

He opened his eyes to clear sunshine, and the vision of Laurie leaning towards him, her fine hair spilling over her shoulders.

She was murmuring in her low, rich voice, "I am sorry, Edward. You were sleeping so contentedly, it seemed a pity to wake you. But we have both slept longer than we are wont to do, and the day has begun."

* * *

This time he fairly backed into his coat as she held it for him.

"I should make an uncommonly fine valet, Edward," purred Laurie. "Should it ever come to that."

Edward's hands seemed to be flying everywhere as he did up the buttons on his coat and adjusted his cuffs. He leaned towards the mirror and examined his face, frowning as he did so.

"Edward, can you not at least shave? Lady Ludlow will be most displeased if --"

"Lady Ludlow will be infinitely more displeased if I fail to arrive promptly for the meeting with her solicitor. I must make haste." He seized his walking stick and nearly threw himself down the stairs -- an effort that fairly rattled his bones, given that he was neither in his first youth nor possessed of two good legs. And yet he did not break his stride but was swiftly out the door and into the morning air, into sunlight, and about to step onto the moist earth when he froze suddenly, as though he'd suddenly been startled awake.

And with that he turned and went back into the house, and no less swiftly.

* * *

She heard his footsteps, of course; in this house, with all its creaking stairs and floors, it should not be possible for him to approach without betraying himself. She was standing by the washbasin and had turned round to look before he'd even entered the room.

"Laurie, forgive me." He thought it best to say it at once.

"Whatever for?" She was still cradling the pitcher in her arms as he stepped towards her.

"For my hasty leave-taking."

"Edward, you said yourself that Lady Ludlow was expecting you."

He wasn't about to quibble with her and waste the few moments they had. "There's little enough time," he said aloud, taking the pitcher from her and setting it on the washstand.

He drew Laurie into his arms, held her tightly against him and felt her head resting against his chin. "There's little enough time," he murmured again. "I'd promised myself I'd not forget that."

* * *

Iron, not stone. How he wished it could be stone. If he'd had his will, he'd have carved her name himself, and the years she'd lived, and something fine besides -- a flower, perhaps, or one of Harry's verses. She'd have liked that.

But it had been a job to afford this little cross and have her name and the date he'd lost her painted upon it, and at least it was something. Folk would pass by and see it, and know she had been there, know had borne his name.

It was raining again, a soft and gentle rain, and Job knew that with time the iron would rust and the paint wear away. When that day came, he'd return and paint it himself, if he had to, or raise another marker. Perhaps by then he should be able to afford a stone.

But however often her name wore away, however many times he had to, he'd come back and see it was written again for all to see, until the day when he at last lay beside her.

* * *

"You will not change your mind?"

"Augusta, you have had my answer already. Pray do not ask me again."

Miss Tomkinson kept silent for a moment, listening to the rain beating against the windows, before she made another attempt.

"But you have kept so much at home, Caroline. You are in danger of becoming morbid."

"Would you keep me from my duties, Augusta? I cannot leave the children without supervision, not when they are so young."

"No, of course not," said her sister gently. "I only mean there is no harm in taking an hour or two, with the twins safely in the care of some reliable person, and making a little holiday for yourself.

"Oh, Caroline, do say you'll come to tea at Mrs. Forrester's. Mrs. Carter will be there, and Mrs. Gordon too. They are gentle souls both, and I am sure it would be soothing for you to spend an hour conversing with them."

"I wish Mrs. Carter nothing but the greatest happiness in her marriage, and you have my leave to tell her as much," said Mrs. Goddard, her voice thick with emotion. "But I think you will understand why I cannot bear to see Mrs. Gordon at present. Not now." The last words were uttered in barely a whisper.

* * *

"Is Mr. Carter well?" asked Miss Pole solicitously as the sponge-cake and tea went round at Mrs. Forrester's cottage later that week.

"He was quite well this morning, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Carter, smiling and blushing a little.

"Yes. Well, he always was a vigorous man, and is so still, out and about in all weathers, though I dare say this constant rain must be a trial to your patience."

"But we have needed rain, Miss Pole," said Miss Tomkinson. "Indeed my garden was becoming quite parched."

"I do not disregard the blessings of rain, Miss Tomkinson, but only thought what it must be to have one's husband marching about indoors wearing top boots that have trod in mud from Hanbury to Woodley."

"Upon my word, Miss Pole, you speak as though men tramped through the house as freely and as untidily as might the livestock from the fields," said Mrs. Forrester.

"I meant no such slight against the sex." Miss Pole turned to Mrs. Carter. "Though I do suppose it must take effort to accustom oneself to the presence of a man in the house."

"And once that is done," said Mrs. Forrester, before Mrs. Carter could reply, "it seems very much the natural order of things. Indeed I would rather have said it can be inexpressibly comforting to have a man under one's roof. Do not you agree?" she added, appealing to the other ladies.

"I must confess myself very happy to have Peter safe home again," said Miss Matty quietly.

"And my mind is never at rest while my husband is away," said Mrs. Gordon. "Nor, for that matter, when Father is gone on railway business."

"I do not doubt it, Mrs. Gordon. Yet I was speaking not only of security," said Mrs. Forrester, "but society. It can be very dull indeed to be on one's own."

"I find it interesting, Mrs. Forrester, that you appear to prescribe marriage as a remedy for boredom," said Miss Tomkinson tartly.

"Still, I do not doubt there is something in that," said Miss Pole. "I dare say it might prove a novelty to gaze across the table and behold a masculine countenance, and one belonging to neither father nor brother."

"But that does not remain a novelty, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Forrester, chuckling. "And it is not only across the table, of course."

At that Mrs. Carter was blushing again, and smiling, a bit to herself. "It is an entirely new experience to me, Miss Pole, but a pleasant one."

"I dare say the presence of a lady is vastly beneficial for the man as well, that he be schooled in what delicacy truly is," declared Miss Pole, dipping her chin for emphasis. "Even if there are times a wife must resign herself to language unfit for a lady's ears."

"Though the words themselves are sometimes inelegant, I can hardly find fault with the honest expression of manly feeling," said Mrs. Carter, noting well Mrs. Forrester's conspiratorial smile, and Miss Tomkinson's pursed lips. "But let me not be unjust. My own husband's language is on most occasions beyond reproach, and I would not impugn the male sex as a whole."

"Nor would I, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Gordon, with detectable indignation. "I believe a good man will moderate his language in the presence of ladies. My father and husband are soldiers both, and yet I think their manners quite gentle."

"Though of course one does not know how the men speak when left to themselves," said Miss Pole.

"No indeed," said Mrs. Forrester, chuckling. "And we never shall, not unless you propose turning spy."

By now Puss had stolen into the room and begun roaming freely, brushing past skirts and slinking around chair legs until she came to Miss Pole and, evidently lacking inclination or memory enough to hold a grudge, leapt up and settled comfortably on her lap.

"I dare say you find a cat about the house is a good deal less trouble than a man, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole conversationally, stroking Puss's back.

At that Mrs. Forrester chuckled again. "I am not certain that is true, Miss Pole. The one is always going this place and that, looking to be fed, seeking attention, purring when that attention is provided, and then sleeping as though there were no cares in the world -- but so is the other!"

"I do not think my father would much care to be compared to a cat," said Mrs. Gordon, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "Nor would my husband!"

At that Mrs. Forrester succumbed completely to laughter. "No, my dear," she said at last, wiping her eyes. "I do not suppose they would."

Miss Pole snorted. "If there is any creature on earth your father bears less resemblance to than a cat," she said to Mrs. Gordon, "I cannot name it." Puss purred contentedly, as though wholly in agreement.

An awkward pause in conversation ensued, which Mrs. Forrester brought to an end by turning to Miss Matty and observing,"It is a great pity Miss Smith could not be with us today."

"She was very sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Matty. "I expect her to return from Manchester in the next week."

"I do hope no one at home is ill," said Miss Tomkinson.

"Oh, it is nothing of that sort," said Miss Matty. "Dr. Marshland is to dine with the family, and be introduced to some of Mary's relations."

"Oh, indeed?" said Miss Tomkinson, with noticeable coolness. "An engagement party, is it?"

"Of a sort," said Miss Matty.

* * *

"Are you ready, then?" Clara Smith, earrings dangling, skirts rustling, entered her stepdaughter's room, where she found Abigail perched on the bed, having been given leave to watch her half-sister as she completed her toilette before the dinner party.

Mary turned from the looking-glass. "I am quite ready, Mama."

"Oh, surely you cannot mean to wear that."

Mary's face fell. "Is this gown unsuitable for company?"

"Not at all, dear," said Clara, surveying the dress with a critical eye. "It is fully as chaste and modest as you please."

"Indeed we selected the pattern and the fabric together, Mama," said Mary, trying to conceal her irritation, and failing. "Do you not recall?"

"Of course, Mary. It is only that I thought you might wear something brighter this evening. It would not do for the aunts to outshine the bride now, would it? said Clara with a little chuckle. "Still, I suppose it cannot be helped," she added, sighing.

"Indeed there will not be time enough for me to put on another dress."

"No, I expect not. But you must have a new gown, now that you are betrothed," said Clara. "And shoes and a bonnet as well, I dare say. Shall we seek something suitable on Monday?" she asked, not unkindly.

"If you like, Mama. Only I truly do not --"

"And it is a great pity you do not yet have an engagement ring," added Clara, unconsciously stroking the tasteful necklace at her own throat. "Still, that cannot be helped either."

"Indeed you need not have regrets about that, Mama. A wedding ring will be all that Dr. Marshland and I require, when the time comes. I would not have it otherwise, not while he is establishing a home for us, and of course fulfilling his obligations to his mother and sisters."

At that Clara gave an unexpected and rather endearing smile. "You're quite the physician's wife already, my dear," she said, squeezing Mary's hand. "Well, then," she added, with another little sigh. "We mustn't keep your father waiting."

* * *

"At Christmastime?" said Uncle Smith.

"It was on Christmas Eve itself that we met," said Jack with a smile and a nod.

"We had both of us been invited to the Misses Tomkinson's party," added Mary. "And then some time later Dr. -- another physician suggested I consult Dr. Marshland, and so it was that we met again, and he prescribed my spectacles."

"Prescribed your spectacles?" said Aunt Smith. "But you are so young, my dear. What need have you of spectacles?"

"I wear them for reading, Aunt, and they have proven most useful."

"I should not like to wear spectacles myself. They should make me seem uncommonly prim and poky," put in Clara Smith, with a little laugh. "And they look so dreadfully uncomfortable."

"Indeed they are by no means uncomfortable," said Mary, "as long as they are fitted properly." She exchanged a look with Jack, who was seated across the room from her.

A twinkle was entering his eye, and a telltale grin was spreading across his face. "And I think true beauty, Mrs. Smith, would never allow its concealment, by spectacles or anything else."

"Of course a gentleman always looks very distinguished in spectacles," said Clara hastily, with an affectionate glance towards her husband.

At that Aunt Trafford snorted. "Why need one concern oneself with looking distinguished? The entire purpose of spectacles is to enable one to see properly. That is reason enough for their use." She turned to Jack. "Are you fond of reading, Dr. Marshland?"

"Oh, I am --"

"Have you ever read **The Vicar of Wakefield**?" said Uncle Smith, before Jack could finish. "By that Irish fellow -- what's his name, my dear? Silver something, I think it was"

"You mean Mr. Goldsmith, Uncle," said Mary, attempting to suppress a smile.

"Goldsmith. That's it. Capital stuff."

"Surely Dr. Marshland, as a medical man, has no time for novels and the like," said Aunt Smith. "Is that not so?"

"On the contrary," began Jack.

"But Mary is uncommonly fond of novels," said Clara. "She has always been a great reader. Indeed that is probably why she has need of spectacles!"

"I dare say Mary could write a novel of her own," said Aunt Smith, chuckling. "Her letters are always most diverting."

"I've always found them so," said Jack. "Why, I've not read a novel to equal them."

"You conduct quite a lively correspondence, then, my dear," said Aunt Trafford, glancing from Mary, who could feel herself blushing, to Jack, then back again.

"Indeed we do, Aunt. But you will understand, of course, that Dr. Marshland also must devote considerable time to reading medical texts," said Mary, steering the conversation back to where it had begun.

"And most especially the study of the eye," added her father helpfully.

"The eye!" said Aunt Smith. "Oh, indeed."

"It's a most fascinating subject, Mrs. Smith," said Jack, with another sly smile at Mary, who cast her eyes downwards for but a moment before looking back at him again -- a familiar little motion he so loved. "You'll not believe how much there is to know. Why, there are good men in Glasgow -- and on the continent too, and even in America -- who are engaged in study, and writing notes, probably even as we speak this night."

"America!" exclaimed Aunt Smith.

"Yes, and France too, Mrs. Smith."

"France?" said Uncle Smith. "Humph. They have some confounded strange notions in France, don't they."

"But there are good medical men in many places, Uncle," said Mary. "Though Dr. Marshland of course studied at Guy's Hospital in London."

"London?" said Uncle Smith, not bothering to hide his relief. "London. Well, well. I'll wager a man can learn a lot in London."

* * *

Sunday afternoon, and no rain at last! Clara had insisted that the little ones had had quite enough of an outing for the day, and had brought them inside for an early supper and early bedtime. Truth to tell, she was grateful they had spent part of the day out of doors, and would no doubt sleep very well indeed that night.

But Clara would not permit Mary to assist her with the children -- she had done quite enough already, Clara assured her, by conducting, with Dr. Marshland's assistance, a little excursion for them that afternoon. No, Mary must take a turn around the garden with her young man; it should prove most refreshing. By this time, Mary had neither the heart nor the desire to refuse.

And it was all to the good, she thought, that today Papa and Uncle had had no occasion to subject Jack to their dreadful cigars, and she could walk companionably arm in arm with him and not come away smelling of tobacco herself.

"You ought to have seen yourself, Mary," he was saying now.

"When, Jack?"

"When you were walking ahead with your brothers and sisters, for all the world like a duck with her little ones trailing after her." He chuckled.

"With the drake bringing up the rear, I suppose," she said, smiling primly.

"If you like."

"Making certain no one is left behind."

"Of course." He smiled to himself.

"I think Mama was very grateful, Jack, for your assistance with the children."

"Oh, go on, Mary."

"No, it is true."

They walked on in silence for a moment before he asked, "Will I suit, do you suppose?"

She placed her other hand on his arm. "I am certain that you know you will suit very well indeed."

"I had my doubts, Mary, when I saw the look your Aunt Trafford gave me!"

"She always looks like that, Jack, and moreover she will never praise anyone directly. But I know she liked you."

"Do you now?"

"Oh, yes. She engaged you in conversation. If she'd found you less than respectable -- or, worse yet, dull -- she should not have attempted it."

He chuckled at that, though a look of relief, barely detectable, passed over his face.

"But I am sorry you were subjected to so many questions."

"I'd not fault them for that," he said. "Besides, what sort of physician would I be if I'd no ready answers?"

"You did very well, Jack." As soon as she'd spoken the words, she wished she'd held her tongue. "I'm sorry. I did not mean you were being --"

"I know what you meant, Mary," he said mildly. "And I'm grateful you'll still have me after all that." But he was grinning, and she tugged playfully at his arm.

"And I was wondering, Mary –"

"What were you wondering, Jack?"

"Just what does a fellow have to do to get a kiss?"

"Oh, I think you've done _quite_ enough," said Mary briskly, and ambiguously, but she was smiling.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	33. The Turning

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC version of **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no claim to or affiliation with the source material.

Many thanks to all the wonderfully faithful readers of this story, especially those of you who have taken the time to post reviews and offer other feedback. Your comments and support mean a great deal.

Extra points to all Americans (and others) who can find yet another of my political in-jokes below...

The title of this chapter was inspired by "The Canticle of the Turning" (lyrics by Rory Cooney and the tune from the old Irish song "The Star of the County Down"), which I have been playing every so often as I've been writing and rewriting.

* * *

**Chapter 33: The Turning**

"_All_ trades and professions?" said Frank. "Oh, surely not." He had not lost his smile, not entirely, but his pale eyes had gone wide with astonishment.

"Why ever not?" said Mrs. Carter, dimpling at him. "Do not women even now labor in various fields of endeavor? Surely they might accomplish a good deal more, provided they receive suitable education."

At that Frank blushed all the way to his collar. "Of course, Mrs. Carter," he said. "It is only that a wife and mother forms the very heart of a family, and a woman's natural inclination is to the care of a home and children."

"That occupation alone?" said Mrs. Carter, her tone serious enough, for all that there was still a little smile on her lips.

"I intend no slight against your sex, Mrs. Carter," said Frank sincerely. "Rather the reverse, for we all of us owe our upbringing -- indeed, life itself -- to women."

"And the preservation of life," said Mary. "By nursing, that is, Dr. Harrison."

Frank smiled warmly back at her. "Of course. Women perform most noble service in that regard."

In that moment Sophy believed she saw Dr. Marshland wink at Mary. Oh, surely he would not dare, not in front of Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Morgan! But perhaps she had only imagined it.

She recovered herself and turned to her husband. "I dare say you might think of teaching as well, Frank.

"My mother taught me my letters and sums," she explained to the company. "And in time I was responsible for my own brother's lessons."

Frank smiled, a bit sadly. "So I recall," he said. "Yes, I must own that women also excel at teaching." A little pause ensued before he added, "But I should think, my love, that you could scarcely imagine a woman wishing to take orders, for example, and perform your father's duties."

"Perhaps not," said Sophy, smiling at the image. "Though there _was_ Deborah, the prophetess and judge."

"Deborah?" echoed Frank, uncomprehending.

"In the Scriptures," prompted Sophy. In one regard, at least, her husband's education was incomplete; he knew neither the catechism nor the Bible.

"'Deborah, the prophetess and judge,'" repeated Mary, looking across at her friend, and smiling. "That is most apt."

"Indeed it is," said Dr. Morgan, with a deep chuckle.

Mrs. Carter was fairly glowing with another smile, of contentment or perhaps pride, when her husband all at once spoke up. "I do not doubt that the Deborah of the Bible served God most faithfully," said Mr. Carter crisply. "But nowadays the office of a judge belongs quite rightly to a man."

"'Rightly,' Edward?" said Mrs. Carter. "Surely you do not believe women's abilities so greatly altered since the time of Deborah that they lack the intelligence to serve in her capacity."

"It was not my intention to disparage women's natural abilities, nor their intelligence," said Mr. Carter. "It is only that dispensing justice requires uncommon resolve, and a woman should prove too soft-hearted."

"But justice is tempered by mercy, Edward, and a man and woman may prove equally just, and equally merciful," said Mrs. Carter with a lift of her eyebrows.

"And I would submit, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Morgan, chuckling once more, "that ladies can prove_ most_ exacting judges.

"Present company excepted, of course," he added, nodding towards Sophy.

"I have seen evidence that a woman may prove very just indeed," said Mr. Carter. "As well as merciful."

"I dare say that the ladies here present are as fair-minded as anyone I know," put in Dr. Marshland, with his sly grin. "Though a lady's wit can be fully as sharp as any man's -- sharper, I think," he added, glancing at Mrs. Carter, whom he plainly admired, and toward Mary, who returned his smile, then lowered her gaze demurely.

"It seems we are quite outnumbered here, Mr. Carter," said Frank to his host.

"This is not a competition, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Morgan, in her quiet way. "And I for one am content simply to make a home for my husband, and defer to his judgment in all other things.

"I shall assist him in his work, of course, and most willingly," she continued. "But I should not like to have the burdens of his profession myself. I cannot speak for the other ladies, though," she added.

"Pray do not misunderstand me," said Mrs. Carter, in her low, rich voice. "I am not talking of usurping man's position, merely sharing in it."

And yet somehow that gentle pronouncement, thought Sophy, seemed to shock Frank quite as much as if Mrs. Carter had declared men unfit to practice any profession at all.

* * *

It had been a modest but altogether delightful supper, and a pleasant evening. Frank had enjoyed the conversation, though he'd been astonished at Mrs. Carter's sentiments, as well as her lively engagement of all the company in debate and discussion. Jack of course had been greatly entertained by the whole exercise, indeed had encouraged Mrs. Carter in her efforts, and Frank had to wonder what her good, grave husband made of it all. Not that he had any doubts about the latter's happiness; Mr. Carter had displayed abundant good humor this evening, and was indeed much altered from what he had been but a year ago.

Besides, a man could only benefit from the society of such a well-bred, intelligent woman. Frank had been by far the youngest husband present but the longest married, and felt himself quite the expert in matters matrimonial these days.

Of course by the time he'd received news that the manager of the Hanbury estate was to wed the milliner, he'd also heard hints of the gossip surrounding the bride. But Frank had credited none of it, given all the foolishness that was put about, even concerning the wholly blameless, perhaps _especially_ the wholly blameless!

And he had decided he quite liked Mrs. Carter, for all that she'd expressed some rather daring opinions this evening. At least she hadn't shocked Sophy. Indeed Mrs. Carter had been extraordinarily solicitous of Sophy's feelings, and gently encouraged her to play as large a part as any of them in the conversation.

Dear Sophy! She had playfully warned Frank that she should have no conversation at all that evening, and he knew, despite her light tone, that she was in earnest.

He also knew she need not have worried. Dr. Morgan always treated her with the tender regard he might have shown a daughter, and of course Miss Smith was all that an affectionate and loyal friend might be. As for the rest of them, Frank had seen that they were every bit as charmed by Sophy as they might be, whether she was listening attentively or speaking herself.

That she should have no conversation! Such a thought.

Still, Frank had been content enough when it came time for them to bid their host and hostess farewell. He was not so long married that he should prefer anywhere else to his own little house, or any other occupation to a happy hour spent in Sophy's company.

* * *

Surely marriage was an excellent thing for a man, thought Dr. Morgan. Frank had more or less sealed the townspeople's good opinion of him by his union with the rector's daughter, and now Dr. Marshland had followed his example and made an offer to Miss Smith. Such a steady, sensible girl ought to temper the Irishman's too free and easy manners, his mischievous ways. Indeed he was already uncommonly improved, though he _had_ shown a hint of his old tricks tonight, encouraging Mrs. Carter in this talk of education for ladies.

Perhaps that was not a bad thing in itself, though, considering their host. Mr. Carter was known as an advocate of schooling for the masses, and if his lady had embraced such notions with untempered enthusiasm, why, her husband's influence should keep her behavior in check, even while her spirits lifted his.

Yes, it was a very good thing for a man to have a helpmeet to share in his joys and sorrows. And if she was clever to the bargain, that was all to the good. Then should she understand her husband's profession the better, and perform her own duties more adroitly.

Sophy Harrison ought to be the proof of that. For all the burdens she had assumed at such a young age, she had also taken every opportunity to improve her mind, and would no doubt prove a better mother for it, when it pleased God to bless her and Frank with children of their own.

Still, Dr. Morgan very much doubted that education ought to fit women for anything beyond looking after a husband, home, and children, and perhaps keeping accounts, or teaching. Certainly he could not imagine a woman in his own profession, though he did respect an honest and capable midwife, and a competent nurse.

No, wives ought properly to support their husbands in their labors. Isobel certainly knew the wisdom of that, and was even content to live in his shadow.

Truth to tell, though, he'd not cast much of a shadow of late, and not only because he was no longer the only physician in the community. For a good many years he had known that in any company he was likely to prove the cleverest man present -- excepting the rector, of course -- as well as the voice of authority. But this evening Frank and Dr. Marshland had taken up a discussion of recent medical discoveries and surgical techniques, talking as freely as they might while paying due deference to the women's tender sensibilities, and he had been unable to contribute any original remarks himself.

Moreover the sight of two fellow physicians in their prime, with their respective ladies at their sides, reminded him as well of how greatly he'd come to dislike the looking-glass of late, and the sight of his own thinning hair.

It was not that he needed to make a coxcomb of himself. He was a married man, after all, and the luckiest fellow in the world for having wooed and won his Isobel. Surely the day ought to be long past when he thought to receive admiring glances. And yet he _had_ long flattered himself that his manners and person were pleasing enough for a man of his age, and that the ladies of Cranford looked on him favorably, and not only owing to his profession.

He dared not speak a word of this to Isobel, lest she think the worse of him. She was all tenderness, of course, yet so shy in her affections that he sometimes worried that she found his society very dull indeed, and was too kind to make complaint.

* * *

"I believe we have consumed all the fruit, my love."

"All of it?" Edward, in the midst of extinguishing a candle, finished his task and looked towards his wife. "Then it is well that you thought to serve that instead of richer fare."

"It has been very warm of late, and I thought fruit should prove refreshing."

"Our guests evidently shared your opinion." Edward put out another candle. "As for conversation, I do not think we left anything untouched there, either."

"Indeed we did not!" said Laurie. "I dare say we discussed travel by every means possible, from railway to donkey cart."

Her husband smiled at her in the remaining candlelight. "Besides which we talked of the great cities, and of history itself."

"And of Holy Scripture and popular novels both," added Laurie. "And education."

"But most particularly the education of _ladies_."

"Yes, Edward, of ladies. How could it be otherwise?

"And of course, as one would expect in the presence of three physicians, medical knowledge, most especially discoveries concerning the eye."

"Hm. That last was Dr. Marshland's doing," said Edward, extinguishing yet another precious candle. "And he alone had enthusiasm for the subject."

"Still, it was an extremely lively discussion, and Dr. Marshland and Dr. Harrison did not stray too far afield from everyone else."

"If they did not, it was your doing," said Edward with another little smile. "You kept them well in check."

"I did not wish the ladies to feel excluded from the conversation."

"No one was excluded," said Edward kindly. "And the talk was pleasanter, and of course a good deal more intelligent, than one often hears at parties."

"Then perhaps in your eyes I stand acquitted," said Laurie demurely.

"Of what?"

"Of the charge that I lack all appetite for stimulating intercourse."

Edward fairly snorted. "Who could make such a foolish pronouncement?"

Laurie felt a smile forming on her lips. She bent to collect several stray glasses before speaking again.

"Still, I hope that Dr. Harrison was not too severely shocked by my opinions," she continued. "And that he took no offense when I engaged him as well as you in debate."

"You need not worry about me, my love; I have long been acquainted with your views," said Edward. "As for Dr. Harrison, he is young, and survived the discussion unbruised."

"But as Mrs. Morgan observed, this is not a competition," said Laurie, eyebrows raised.

"No," said Edward. "It is not. But still you will not take it amiss if I claim a prize."

"A prize?" She looked again at his face in the candle's glow -- his skin burnished by the light, and his eyes gleaming like gemstones, and his jaw and brow set off by intriguing shadows. The expression was serious, but his tone had suggested --

"Or perhaps a forfeit," he added. "That is, depending on your views."

"I should think, Edward, that you know my views well enough by now, indeed completely."

"Completely?"

"In one respect, at least." She spoke softly, barely above a whisper, yet with a delicate emphasis. "And if I understand your meaning, I should not regard what you are asking as any manner of forfeit."

At that he smiled again. "Then we understand each other very well indeed." He took the last of the glowing candles and carefully handed it to her, and she shielded the flame as she turned to lead him him through the darkness towards the stairs.

* * *

It really was not quite a day for walking. The rain had been such that the ground was still very moist and soft, and the grass still wet. Yet the gardens were lovely, and the woods as well. She loved the hushed stillness of it all, as though the woods and fields had been made a chapel.

Summer, not spring, was truly when the whole earth awakened -- each flower opening its petals, every tree carrying its ripening fruit. She knew that if she went to the rectory garden, she should see the cherry tree heavy with its bounty, and at the Hanbury orchards there should be the promise of apples and pears -- not now, of course, but soon.

A fruitful season. Surely it would be so this year. Surely the months to come should fulfill that promise.

Unconsciously she folded her arms about herself, as though to protect and embrace what was within.

* * *

Waiting. He hadn't time to be waiting.

"Come on now. Don't dawdle."

Job Gregson, little James in his arms, cast a look back at his daughters and second-youngest son. It was always so when they came to the village on market day. They marched about in a line, very like a duck with her ducklings, with him at the front and the little children trailing behind. There were fewer of them now, of course, with Malachi working alongside Harry in the cowshed, but it was still a lot of trouble to take the others with him, and Sarah was very nearly no help at all.

Sarah, of course, _had_ wanted to dawdle. She needed more time to finish her shopping, she said, and should take even longer if she'd the children gathered about her, teasing her for sweets and suchlike. They must go with Job to the ironmonger, and then she would meet them all later at the churchyard.

It was a pity that Harry was not there with them -- the little girls and boys knew they must mind him, for all that he was gentle -- but that could not be helped. He and Malachi were as yet at their chores in the cowshed.

Malachi had of course blubbered when Job told him he was old enough now to earn a wage of his own, and must do so in such a place. The boy wanted to be out of doors, and he didn't like cows. Job told him to leave off his crying. It was good fortune itself that Lady Ludlow was willing to take him on, and Harry would be at his side, or nearly. He'd see to it Malachi was a good boy and did his work. Job could always be sure of Harry.

The same could not be said for Sarah. Job had arrived at the agreed-upon meeting place, and there was no sign of the girl. The children were too restless for him to truly think on where he was -- here at the churchyard, where his Bella lay -- and why. If only Sarah would come, he'd have a chance to stop quietly by himself for a bit, though not for long. He'd duties to attend to back at Hanbury this evening, and --

Just then a man in black clothes approached them.

"Mr. Gregson, is it not?"

It was the rector himself. The man was smiling but Job felt at once he was being watched, as if by the constable or the magistrate, and thought to remove his hat.

"Sir."

"I am Reverend Hutton, Mr. Gregson. I believe I know your eldest son," he said, still smiling as he looked at the children gathered around Job.

"Harry?"

"Yes. He read the Psalm at Mr. Carter's wedding. He did very well."

"I thought as much."

For a moment the rector said nothing more, as he made a study of the ground, and Job of his boots.

"Mr. Gregson, I wondered if I might speak a word with you about your son Harry."

"What's he done?"

At that the man smiled again and very nearly chuckled. "Harry has done nothing wrong. He's a fine boy, Mr. Gregson, a very fine boy."

"Aye. He's a good lad."

"Might we walk together for a few moments' discussion?" asked Reverend Hutton. "My daughters are out in the garden," he added, nodding towards the grounds of the rectory. "Your children might rest there while we have our conversation."

Job had never truly seen the rectory garden, but if he'd not known he was waking, he should have thought himself in a dream, or perhaps Paradise itself. There were roses of different colors, there were flowers he could not name, and there were trees thickly hung with ripe cherries.

Beneath the trees were two girls, a little dark one and a taller one with golden hair. The rector walked over to the two and Job could hear him say, "Lizzie, my dear." The rest of the words were lost to Job, but both girls looked towards him and the children, and he could well guess what they might be thinking.

After a moment, the rector came back. "Your children can play here while we talk. My daughters will see they come to no harm."

Jemima was looking up at the stranger, taking in his black clothes, his stern face. She turned her eyes back to her father, who said, "It's all right. But mind you look after David and James." He set down his youngest son, and James toddled off between his two sisters, holding each by the hand. David was already running across the grass; he'd seen a bird or a butterfly or some such thing, and wanted to chase it.

Reverend Hutton called out once more to his girls. "Lizzie, Helen, mind that the children don't leave the garden."

He turned to Job. "Now then, let us walk."

* * *

He must go home at once. It wasn't that the rector had so much as said a cross word to him -- it would have been better if he had -- but that he'd thought to talk to him of Harry at all. Job began to wonder if Carter had put him up to it. Carter had no son of his own, but then neither did the rector. His little lad was dead almost two years, and lay beneath the sod but a few steps from Bella.

And the rector had no wife of his own either, Job recalled. Well, then -- no wife, no son. But then why should the man trouble Job about Harry, and putting him in school?

Oh, he ought not to have come. There was nothing but mischief here, in this place where a sad-faced man with no wife or son of his own should tell him what he was to do with his Harry.

Job returned to the spot where he'd stood before, and saw them then, saw his children. His daughters were crouched beneath a tree, gathering cherries in their skirts, and David was seated on the ground, putting fruit into his mouth, and grimacing as his little teeth met every stone.

The rector's two daughters – one dark, one fair – were jostling the branches of the tree with a rake, and laughing and squealing as the ripe cherries came tumbling down upon them and upon Job's children.

"Come on then, you lot," said Job to his girls and to David. Jemima stood up, careful not to drop the cherries she'd gathered, and the little dark girl came up to her. "You shall have a basket," she said to Jemima. As she turned to fetch it her eyes fell upon Job.

She looked at him very much as she might have looked upon a robber.

"Come on, then!" he said to Keziah, who took David by the hand. "Where's James?" asked Job, turning once more to the golden-haired Hutton girl.

She made no reply but nodded towards the steps of the rectory. There sat a servant, a thin woman in apron and cap. She was picking through a basket of cherries, a basin at her side, and James was walking towards her on his little legs, clutching a cherry or two in his fist. He dropped the fruit in the basket, and she smiled at him as though he'd given her the finest of gifts.

In a few strides Job had reached the woman. "That's my son," he said, more harshly than he meant to.

The woman flinched as though he'd struck her with his hand. "Yes," she said, barely looking up. Her smile had gone. "He'll not come to any harm here, sir."

"No," said Job, more softly now.

"And he's a grand little boy."

"But I must take him home." He lifted James in his arms, then turned to his other children. "Now, what's become of Sarah?"

He was on the verge of an oath when he remembered where he was.

* * *

Every task seemed to require greater effort these days -- even falling asleep. Jessie Gordon pushed herself upright in bed and felt the slightest hint of a breeze coming from the window. Oh, that was heavenly. It had been such an uncommonly warm day, and the lack of air in the house was stifling. Still she had retired early, drowsy from the heat and easily tired due to her condition, only to find that sleep would not come.

Now she eased herself off the bed, her feet onto the floor, and was suddenly aware of voices issuing forth from the open window below hers.

Masculine voices -- her father's and another man's. She held perfectly still and listened.

"Of course under the circumstances, Captain, I must approach you with the frank acknowledgment that it is a great deal that I ask of --"

The remaining words were muffled, yet Jessie knew the voice at once.

"But you are among the company's directors, Sir Charles. Can you not speak in my stead, and allow me --"

Again, the last part of the sentence was lost to her, as was Sir Charles Maulver's reply.

There was no mistaking the next words, though.

"Indeed I cannot, sir. I cannot! It would be coldness itself to leave my Jessie at such a time."

The voices rose and fell. The words drifted upwards -- _gratitude_, _position_, _circumstances_, _promises_, _but a few days_.

_But a few days_. _Only a few_.

At the last she was able to hear a pronouncement from Sir Charles that seemed very nearly to bring her beating heart to a stop.

"Of course I will speak in your stead, as you wish. But I would be remiss, Captain, if I did not remind you that it is not wholly my decision. If they should choose to install another man, why, I shall speak against it, and most vehemently. But I cannot promise that my voice alone will be enough to secure your position."

At that she was too distracted to hear her father's reply. She sank again upon the bed and clutched at the linens. Her mind was reeling, and only the sound of the door shutting below stairs roused her from the most painful imaginings.

But the closing of the door did its work. She knew what she must do.

The question was only how to approach her father without wounding his pride, or revealing what she had heard of his interview with Sir Charles.

* * *

It had been another heavenly June day, and Mary thought it would be a great pity to go home just yet.

She and Sophy had been walking beneath the shade of the trees, along the brook, and out to the rectory, where they found the garden at its loveliest and the cherries glistening among the leaves in the trees. They each of them had filled a little basket and then for a time sat upon the ground, very much as Helen or Lizzie might have done. But they had quite grown-up concerns, she and Sophy, and talked of Frank, and of Jack, and of all that had changed within a year.

Yet they did not speak of the time when Mary must leave Cranford, and no longer might they enjoy an afternoon such as this, when they seemed as yet close to girlhood, if only briefly.

At length the hour grew late, and Sophy confessed herself a little tired and desirous of a rest before seeing to Frank's supper, and so Mary had parted from her at her doorstep and embarked upon a second walk beside the brook.

The shade proved enticingly cool, and Mary seated herself at waterside, the basket of cherries from the rectory set down beside her. The gurgle of the waters was pleasantly distracting, and all at once she felt oddly drowsy. Indeed she might have contentedly drifted off to sleep then and there.

But she had had _such_ dreams of late. Only the night before she had gone to sleep and dreamed that Miss Deborah Jenkyns was rector of the church at Cranford, and no one, not even Dr. Harrison, made complaint when she stood before them at matins. On waking Mary had not quite known whether to laugh or to cry, or to provide an account to Miss Matty.

Now, in her half-waking state, she heard the soft thud of hooves. On looking up she saw Jack riding along the path and knew at once she must be dreaming. He was not to come today. Surely she was asleep.

But the rider drew near, stopped, and dismounted.

* * *

She'd always loved the sound of the water, even enjoyed watching it tumbling gently over the rocks, and now she kept her eyes fixed upon the stream as Jack spoke. She sought to listen but felt unequal to grasping all he was saying now, and clung only to the promise he had given her:

_It should only be a few months. Only a few months._

It was good fortune itself, Jack told her, that he'd a Mentor of his own, an honorable man and a fine physician, a fellow he trusted as he would his own father. After Jack had left Guy's the two of them had kept up a lively correspondence, always writing of the cases they'd seen, the conditions they'd treated, the conundrums they'd not yet resolved.

And now he meant to make something of all those studies, all those years of work, and was writing a medical book of his own. Jack should assist him with it, seeing to the drawings and a good deal more. Why, it was beyond all their fondest hopes.

It would mean going away for a time, first to Glasgow, of course, then London as well, and perhaps even to the continent, that they might see for themselves the treatments of which they'd only heard report.

"It sounds very much an adventure," said Mary softly, keeping her eyes on the waters. She could sense Jack was looking at her but did not turn to face him.

"For all that it sounds grand, Mary, it'll be long hours, hard work, even dull at times!" She felt him take her hand. "And you'll not be at my side."

She turned to look into his face. "But can you not accomplish all this in Manchester?"

He smiled at that, almost as though she had posed the innocent question of a child. "If only it were that simple. There's medical men and books scattered abroad, Mary, and patients outside Manchester to be seen as well, and cases to be studied, and operations and treatments to be observed. I'll be a better physician for seeing it all for myself."

She looked out again at the water. _Only a few months. _The images of the brook, the trees, the basket blurred before her eyes.

"Mary. Mary, look at me." She turned her face but not her eyes to him, and almost resisted when he put a hand beneath her chin and tilted it upwards. For a moment she thought he was about to kiss her, but he only spoke to her then, in a voice as gentle as ever she'd heard.

"I'd not wanted to make you cry." Then, yet more softly but hesitantly: "And I'll not go if you ask me to stay."

"I could not bear to disappoint you so." Even at this moment she knew she had found the truest words she'd ever spoken to him, and perhaps the ones, too, that he needed most to hear. And yet though he smiled at her, she thought there was something of regret in his eyes, as though he knew what those words had cost her.

"You understand what this means."

"I know what it means to you, Jack. Such an opportunity may not present itself again."

"Mary, it means a great deal for both of us. It'll be the making of me." He gave her his accustomed smile. "You'd not want to marry a good-for-nothing now, would you?"

"Jack!" She gave him a look of mock reproach but then said, quite in earnest, "I hope my father has not been scolding you about your prospects."

"He's done no such thing. But if I do this, I can better make my way in the world, and look after you as you deserve."

"As I deserve? Jack, don't tease me."

"I'm fond of teasing you," he said, with a smile that said as much. "And I'll miss it so."

At that she turned her head again, that he might not see her tears.

"Ah, Mary." He spoke her name very softly. "I wish we were married already, that you might go with me."

"You know that is impossible, Jack, and I should distract you from your work."

At that he actually chuckled. "You might."

"Moreover the university and your benefactor will not have counted on the expense."

Jack clasped her hand again. "It was just a dream," he said, almost lightly, looking away. He turned back to her with his old smile. "But a fellow can dream, can't he?"

"Indeed he can," said Mary, able to return the smile.

"He must," said Jack, all at once serious. "If he's waiting for you to wed him."

"Jack, I am the one who will be waiting!" she said, recovering some of her spirit. "You will have a great deal to engage you, and quite forget us all."

"I'll not do that. Besides," he added, the mischief back in his eyes, "you're the one who will be amid the mad social whirl that is Cranford."

She smiled at him again, and with a little sigh said, "Yes, Jack, I shall be here in Cranford, making good use of my time and looking after Martha's baby and tying up preserves with Miss Matty, and writing letters to you." She was smiling still, and he back at her, as he raised his gentle physician's hands to brush away the last of her tears.

* * *

It had been such an uncommonly warm day, Miss Pole thought, and a stroll past the brook must prove very refreshing. One craved shade at such times, especially since there seemed to be but little breeze in the village these days.

Of course one might never embark on a plan without discovering that another had had much the same notion, and indeed hastened to carry it out while one was still tying on one's bonnet. But that could not be helped, and one must resign oneself to company in nearly every corner of a village this size.

Which is not to say that she was glad of the sight of a young man and woman seated together at waterside, propriety evidently counting for little these days, given the want of distance between the two of them.

But another, more remarkable surprise awaited Miss Pole.

The young woman was Miss Smith, and the young man Dr. Marshland.

As she drew nearer she saw that Miss Smith was in great distress, indeed in tears, and for a moment Miss Pole contemplated offering assistance. But it was also evident that Dr. Marshland was attending to her, though hardly in his professional capacity, and Miss Pole suspected very much that a solicitous inquiry regarding Miss Smith's health should be most unwelcome at this moment.

For all that, though, it was dreadfully shocking that Miss Smith would permit even her future husband such liberties when they were both seated by the brook and almost anyone might pass by and observe them, especially when the banns had not as yet been read.

* * *

Some days later Mary was assisting Miss Matty at tying up preserves when Martha walked into the kitchen.

"There's a letter come for you, Miss Smith," said Martha, displaying the prize.

"From Dr. Marshland?" said Miss Matty brightly, with a glance and a smile at Mary.

"I don't think it's his hand," said Martha, studying the envelope, and frowning. "But it _is_ very blotted."

At that Miss Matty directed a reproachful look at Martha as Mary, in the midst of wiping her hands, tilted her head to look at the letter. "That is surely Papa's writing, though by no means as tidy as usual."

"Shall I leave it here, then, Miss Smith?" said Martha, propping the envelope up by the window. "It'll come to no harm."

"Yes, thank you, Martha," said Mary, bending to her task again as Martha set about drying crockery.

"Do you not wish to read it at once, Mary, dear?" asked Miss Matty.

"Let us finish our work. Then shall I have the leisure to enjoy Papa's letter," said Mary, smiling at her friend. Miss Matty was much relieved to see the young woman's spirits recovered, or seemingly so. Mary had made a touching effort to conceal her tears after Dr. Marshland had set out for Glasgow, but Matty not had been deceived by her brisk cheerfulness in the days that followed. She provided what comfort she might, and as well had resolved to occupy, even divert Mary until such time as her young man returned home again. After all, it should be but a few months --

"Matilda." Peter had appeared suddenly in the doorway. "I own I do not know what this is about, but a most curious thing has occurred."

"What is it, Peter?"

"Did anyone in the household summon the fly?"

Without a word Mary was across the room and had the letter in her hands. She tore it open and read it as they all stood -- Miss Matty, Peter, and Martha -- watching her expression.

"It is indeed from Papa."

"Oh, Mary, dear, he's not ill, is he?" said Matty tenderly.

"I do not know. But he says I must return to Manchester, and at once."

* * *

Had it been possible for Martha Hearne to have divided herself into two women, she might well have attempted it, for all the running up and down she did as they prepared to send Mary off in the fly. Mr. Smith had said precious little in his letter, only that he requested that Mary return home directly, and prepare to remain there for some time.

Mary had been anxious enough on his account, and could not help but express her worries aloud as they made ready.

"He does not say why he wants me home. Yet I know he has often been vexed by pains, and I should not like to think that he has learned -- that he has learned that he is truly ill."

"Mary, dear, pray do not distress yourself by speculating." said Miss Matty, laying a hand on her friend's shoulder. "The letter came from your father himself. Surely he _must_ be well."

"I am sorry, Miss Matty," said Mary, mastering the tremor in her voice. "It is only that Papa is so mindful of his obligations, and frequently ignores his own discomfort. I fear he would defer speaking to a doctor until it is quite serious."

"You shall see him soon enough," said Miss Matty gently, taking Mary into an embrace, which she returned wholeheartedly.

"Is all in readiness?" called Peter from the hallway.

"Very nearly," said Miss Matty. "I fear we must make haste," she said to Mary.

"Yes."

"Wherever has Martha gone?" said Miss Matty, an uncharacteristic note of vexation in her voice. She fetched Peter into the room, that he might carry Mary's things downstairs, and as they all descended they heard a knocking at the door.

Jessie Gordon had come from her house across the way. "I wanted to see you before you went to Manchester."

"Oh, Jessie." Mary, overcome once more, embraced her gently. "Do not worry. I shall return as soon as possible."

Jessie drew back, smiling. "I am not worried about anything."

"Don't go just yet, Miss Smith!"

Martha was coming towards the house at a run. "I've sent word to Mrs. Harrison. She'll want to say goodbye and all."

Miss Matty turned to Peter and Mary. "Surely we can delay a moment more."

"At least long enough to make ready," said Peter, beckoning to the driver. The two of them took some time settling Miss Smith's belongings, and Peter was about to hand Mary into the fly when a cry startled them all.

"Mary!"

Sophy Harrison fairly ran down the street and directly into Mary's embrace. Neither could speak for a moment, but as they drew apart, Sophy took Mary's hands in both of hers. "I will write to you."

"And I you."

"Godspeed, Mary."

And with a final leave-taking of Miss Matty, Mr. Jenkyns and Mrs. Gordon, and even a tender handclasp with a tearful Martha, Mary Smith left Cranford as precipitately as she had entered it.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	34. On Earth and In Heaven

Chapter 34

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and have taken all manner of liberties with the canon.

And as Siggy well knows, every so often my characters go all **Ashes to Ashes** on me -- in the most genteel fashion, of course.

Many thanks to everyone who is faithfully and patiently following this story, especially those who are posting reviews and offering encouragement. Hearing from you makes my heart soar!

**Chapter 34: On Earth and in Heaven**

Was the dream to pursue her throughout her life?

She had hoped that with their marriage it should never return. But one night in June she fell asleep to have the familiar nightmare, and awoke to feel her heart beating rapidly, as though she had once again been running down the street towards Dr. Harrison's surgery.

In waking, she startled Edward out of his own sleep. Now that brought her a measure of guilt -- he got little enough rest as it was -- yet she did not truly regret waking him. Indeed she could have wept with relief at finding him beside her at all, let alone hearing his voice in the darkness and feeling his arms enfold her.

But she dared not tell him that, and said only that she'd had a troubling dream, that she was sorry to have to woken him.

Edward for his part neither grumbled nor sighed, as a man who had been roused from a sound sleep might be expected to do. In fact he was in no particular haste to fall asleep again, and if he said very little to her, his tenderness was eloquence enough, and deeply comforting.

When at last he returned to his own dreams, he had dispelled every unsettling image of her nightmare. Even so, Laurie left her hand resting upon Edward's chest, just above his good, sound heart, as she followed him into sleep.

* * *

He'd been dreaming of Christmas again, of riding to Cranford to visit Frank in that dreary little house he'd taken, only this time Jack's mother and sisters had come from Ireland to be with them, that they all might make merry with the ladies and Captain Brown on Christmas Eve.

They'd gathered in a cheerful parlor, all of them -- Miss Matty, of course, and Miss Pole, and Miss Tomkinson and her sister, just as he remembered them, and Miss Jessie at the pianoforte.

And there was his Mary, her eyes shining in the candlelight, her fair skin aglow, and he wanted nothing so much as to go to her then and there, to claim the seat beside her and put his arm about her waist, even if he shocked Miss Matty and all the company. But there were a great many people in the room, jostling and laughing, so many that he could barely see Mary, never mind touch her, and he woke up before he'd got to the other side of the parlor.

It took him some time before he remembered he was in not Cranford at all, or even -- God help him! -- Manchester. No, he was in Glasgow, and there was many a mile between him and Mary.

And it wasn't even Christmas.

* * *

"There has been no word as yet from Miss Smith?"

"No," said Miss Matty quietly. "Indeed there has not." She wished to add, "And I am greatly worried," but perhaps there was no need to speak the words. Miss Pole herself might have taken their young friend's silence for an ominous sign, and as for Jessie, her expression bespoke worries enough.

"I have noted some laxity in the penny post of late," remarked Miss Pole, frowning as she examined her needlework. "I dare say some coach or other has miscarried the letter intended for your doorstep." She turned pink, perhaps recognizing too late an unfortunate turn of phrase, and added, "Before the week is out we shall surely hear report from Miss Smith."

"I am certain you are right, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Gordon, with determined cheerfulness. "But we must not grow too impatient. Mary has so many little brothers and sisters, and there is a great deal to engage her from morning until night. It may be several days more before she has leisure enough to write."

"She has always sent such delightful letters," observed Miss Matty, smiling in her turn. "Dear Deborah and I used to read them aloud to each other, before Mary came to stay with us."

"I own it is only with difficulty I can accustom myself to her absence," said Mrs. Gordon, rising suddenly from her seat. "Indeed she has been our neighbor and friend since Father and I first came to Cranford -- as have you, Miss Matty."

Miss Matty smiled again, though at Jessie's observation she was seized with an unavoidable melancholy. There had been a good deal of sorrow in both their houses since first they had become neighbors.

But it would be unwise to dwell upon what had befallen them in past years, for they both of them had had cause for joy in recent months, and indeed would soon have more --

"Mrs. Gordon, are you unwell?" Miss Pole's bright little eyes were on Jessie, who had gone to stand by the window and was holding to the sill tightly.

Jessie smiled back at them, though Matty was certain she saw both anxiety and weariness in the young woman's eyes. "It is so very warm, Miss Pole, and I wished to see if there was yet a breeze."

"It _is_ uncommonly hot today," agreed Miss Pole, and turned her gaze back to the needlework in her lap.

"Perhaps we ought to fetch some cool water and make a compress," said Miss Matty, rising from her chair. "Shall I go?"

"Oh, no, Miss Matty. That is very kind of you, but I do not think there is any need." Jessie smiled once more, and with visible effort.

"Upon my word, your face has become quite flushed!" said Miss Pole, looking up again.

"Jessie, dear, whatever is wrong?"

"I am sorry, Miss Matty. I had believed it was too soon."

"Too soon?" prompted Miss Matty, suspecting she knew what Jessie meant but dreading the answer.

"That is, Dr. Harrison said I ought not to expect my confinement for at least another week or two."

At that Miss Pole opened her mouth and forgot to close it.

"He said as well that there might be false pains," continued Jessie, now struggling against tears.

"'False pains'?" said Miss Pole, both incredulous and indignant. "'_False _pains'? Whatever can he have been talking of?"

"Are you having pains at present?" inquired Miss Matty delicately.

Jessie nodded. "But they were at first not so very bad."

"At first?" echoed Miss Pole, again forgetting to close her mouth.

"Have you been having the pains for a time?" asked Miss Matty solicitously.

"For a time." Jessie still seemed very near to tears yet rallied enough to add, "But I was able to rest for a good deal of the night."

"For a good deal of the night!" Miss Pole and Miss Matty spoke almost as one woman.

Jessie nodded again. "It was by no means difficult. But at present -- oh, Miss Matty, I do not think I can deny that the pains have begun in earnest." The last word was spoken softly, very nearly inaudibly, though neither of her companions mistook it.

Miss Matty felt if she dared expel a breath, she might succumb either to nervous laughter or equally unsuitable tears. Really, what _should_ Deborah do in such a circumstance? Not that Deborah had ever been called upon to assist a woman in her confinement.

She must rally now. She must.

Miss Matty summoned the maid. "Mrs. Gordon's pains have begun," she announced, almost sternly, as soon as the girl had entered the room.

"Oh! Missus!"

"Now I wish for you to fetch a basin of cool water, and a clean cloth, and take them to Mrs. Gordon's room," continued Miss Matty.

"Yes, madam. " The girl curtsied and disappeared, evidently calmer herself, now that she'd been set a task.

"Jessie, dear," said Miss Matty, turning to Mrs. Gordon. "I shall ask my brother to go for Dr. Harrison at once."

"I am grateful, Miss Matty," said Jessie, summoning another smile. "But surely it is by no means so urgent. Dr. Harrison warned me I ought to expect the pains to continue for many hours, perhaps as long as a day, indeed possibly longer."

"Well, there can be no harm in fetching him now," said Matty briskly but not unkindly. "He will wish to see how you are getting on." She turned to Miss Pole. "I shall return directly, as soon as I have spoken to Peter, and of course I shall wish to inform Martha, and perhaps seek her counsel.

"Now, Jessie, perhaps you might wish to go upstairs and rest."

"If you think it best," said Jessie, looking as though she'd not strength enough to rebel.

"Miss Pole," said Miss Matty, _sotto voce_, "would you be so kind?"

"Oh! Yes. Yes, of course," said that lady, offering Mrs. Gordon her arm.

"Thank you," said Jessie softly, taking Miss Pole's arm but looking towards Miss Matty. She was calmer now, though her eyes were wet with tears. Miss Matty reached out and took her other hand.

"Do not worry, Jessie, dear. All will be well."

* * *

Oh, she should very much have liked to have boxed Captain Brown's ears. Leaving his only daughter at such a time! What could he have possibly been thinking?

A little fever of fury and indignation so engaged Miss Pole's mind that she very nearly forgot she was escorting Mrs. Gordon to her chamber, until she became aware that Jessie had placed one trembling hand against the wall, as if to steady herself.

"My dear Mrs. Gordon, is it so very bad?" she said, turning to look at her friend.

"Forgive me, Miss Pole, but I believe I must rest for a moment."

"Of course," said Miss Pole softly, loosening her hold on Jessie's arm, and watching in dismay as the young woman's face contorted with pain, though she made no sound beyond drawing breath, and even that seemed to demand all her strength.

For what seemed a very great while Miss Pole stood helplessly as they both waited for the pain to reach its end. At length Jessie drew a deep breath and assumed an expression of the utmost relief.

"There. It is better. Thank you, Miss Pole. You are very kind."

"Oh, it is nothing. Now, do you feel well enough to take the final steps?" asked Miss Pole, recognizing even as she spoke another unfortunate turn of phrase. Making an apology, though, could only increase the awkwardness of the circumstances, and so she said nothing more but offered her arm to Mrs. Gordon.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

Without further trouble they reached the upstairs and made their way to the room Mrs. Gordon had once shared with her sister. It was strangely quiet, now that Major Gordon had gone to Scotland, and Miss Brown to a better place.

Once at their destination, however, Miss Pole realized that she had no notion of how to proceed, and Mrs. Gordon merely smiled in an embarrassed fashion.

"I am entirely at your beck and call," said Miss Pole, as much to break the silence as anything. "Though I own I have no notion what is to be done."

"Oh, surely there is nothing for you to do," said Mrs. Gordon, with her accustomed modest smile. "At present I can think of no other task but to rest, and await Miss Matty's return."

"And Dr. Harrison's arrival."

"Of course." At that Mrs. Gordon sighed deeply, and might have spoken again, had not the young maid bustled in with a basin of water and a fresh cloth.

"Have we enough clean linen?" asked Mrs. Gordon suddenly.

"The bed's freshly made up, madam," said the girl.

"Yes, of course. It is just that we shall presently need additional sheets, and some towels."

"I reckon we have more than enough. Shall I bring some now?"

"No, not just yet," said Jessie uncertainly.

The girl disappeared again, leaving Miss Pole to ponder the impudence of servants nowadays. She turned back to Mrs. Gordon, fully intending to commiserate, and was disconcerted to find her once again in tears.

* * *

She had resolved to be brave, to rise to what was required of her, but if she had reckoned with this pain, she'd had no idea of the loneliness, or of the helplessness. Mary had promised to be with her in this hour, but she had been called to Manchester, to return God knew when. That ought not to have mattered, and yet it did, very much.

And as for the pain, had her poor sister ever suffered so? Jessie could not but excuse her every cross word, if pain equal to this had been the cause. And as another could not take the suffering upon herself, or comprehend it, there was yet greater loneliness in it as well.

"Why, Mrs. Gordon!" Miss Pole's voice was astonishingly gentle, and Jessie, for all her attempts to compose herself, could not but begin to cry in earnest. She felt Miss Pole press a pocket-handkerchief into her hand.

"Thank you," said Jessie, with an embarrassingly childish sniff, as she unfolded it. "Do forgive me."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Gordon, you must make no apology to anyone."

"I had thought I could be brave," continued Jessie. "For my husband's sake, and for Father's."

At that her companion actually snorted. "I should think, Mrs. Gordon, that you have a good deal to concern you without being troubled as to what either of them thinks.

"Now then, shall I fetch you some tea? Or perhaps --"

"I had much rather you stopped here, and talked with me," said Jessie, before Miss Pole could finish. "Indeed I should not like to be alone, not at present. You will not leave me?"

"No, dear," said Miss Pole, determination evident in the very set of her jaw and brow. "I most certainly shall not."

* * *

Harry had always liked the office at Hanbury, but he liked the Carters' sitting-room better, with its candles and flowers and good things to eat, and more books than the three of them might have carried into the office.

That meant more stories and poems for them to read, thought Harry, more than he could even count. They would read them all, he hoped. In fact he was sure Mr. Carter would want them to.

Tonight they'd started another book, and Harry read aloud while Mr. Carter and Mrs. Carter sat listening. Mrs. Carter didn't say much but kept busy with her sewing, though sometimes she looked up and caught Harry's eye, and smiled at him, just as she had done when they had all worked in the office together.

He liked her smile very much, but he liked her voice even better, and wanted to ask her to read to him and Mr. Carter. But he felt too shy to say anything, and it was _his_ lesson, after all.

So Mrs. Carter sat and listened and worked while he read. She was making a cap, Harry saw, and he wondered at that. Mr. Carter had told him she was to sew no more caps and bonnets for the ladies, and that someone else had taken her little shop.

Then Harry saw it was a very small cap indeed. A baby's cap.

_Was_ there to be a baby? Harry wanted to ask but thought Mr. Carter might be cross if he did. Any road, Mum had never told him whenever there was to be a baby; she only told Dada, and she always waited until she thought everyone else was asleep.

A baby! Would Mr. Carter like a baby? Would Mrs. Carter like a baby? Harry thought about how Mum had got so sick with her babies, and how she'd cried at night when Dada had gone away to try his luck somewhere else.

But Mr. Carter didn't go away the way Dada had.

Of course Dada didn't go away now either; he was at home with all of them, even if he didn't read books, or teach them their numbers. He wouldn't play them a tune on his flute now, either, or tell them stories. Maybe he couldn't now that he'd never see Mum coming to meet him, coming to kiss him, or see her smiling, or hear her laughing.

Thinking of that made Harry feel very lonely, as though he were not in Mr. Carter's sitting-room at all but in the forest at night, looking for the traps Dada used to set, and feeling the fear right in his belly whenever he heard something stir.

* * *

Harry had been making a manful effort at tonight's text, but after he yawned for the third time Laurie put down her sewing. It was well that the boy continued his lessons, but they ought not to keep him from his bed any longer.

Edward looked up when she made her gesture, and in a trice caught her eye. "Perhaps we might continue tomorrow evening, Harry," he said kindly, glancing towards the boy, then back at her again, his eyes lingering on her face.

For his part, Harry made no effort to hide either his relief or his weariness, and firmly shut the book he had been holding.

Laurie stood up. "Should you like some peaches, Harry, to take home with you?" The boy nodded and smiled, and she felt a warm affection towards him. He was growing fast, and had long been doing the work of a man, or nearly so, and yet he was a child still, and needed the tender attentions of a mother -- and, for that matter, a father. God alone knew what might have become of him, had not Edward taken an interest in his welfare. Job Gregson could not have done more, and indeed never would, not as long as the boy did his work and brought home his wage. No wonder Harry seemed so deeply tired.

As Laurie gathered up the fruit she was at once conscious of her own weariness. She must go upstairs to bed herself, once Harry set off for home.

She prayed to God there should be no dreams this night.

* * *

It was not that he was ever in great haste to see Harry leave. Indeed it was a fine thing to learn for himself how well the boy got on, despite the interruption to his lessons, and Edward was very pleased to find that the lad's thirst for knowledge continued. That was the mark of an intelligent mind -- a sustained and lively curiosity. God bless Miss Pole for putting Harry in his path, for it should have been unconscionable to waste such talent.

Still, though he enjoyed Harry's society, Edward had not truly regretted sending the boy to his own home -- close by now, and pleasanter than it had been -- that he should have Laurie all to himself. While Harry was reading, Edward had stolen a glance or two at his wife. She had been engaged in making some present or other for Mrs. Gordon, and took no notice while he made a study of her expressive dark eyes, which could be tender, thoughtful, or playful by turn, and of the appealing curves of her face by candlelight.

It was all he could do to draw his thoughts away from her, and back to Harry's text.

Before the wedding he had worried that that Laurie and he might with time find each other's company vexing or dull, but he need never have worried. Her quiet ways suited him very well indeed, and her lively wit and fine mind made her as pleasing a companion as he could have wished.

For his part, he guessed he'd proven considerate enough a husband that Laurie's new duties and obligations had thus far not proven too severe a trial to her nerves. Indeed he suspected they afforded her a measure of comfort, and not only because she need no longer earn her bread as a milliner, and be subject to the whims of the ladies of Cranford.

"My hearth, my refuge," she had called him before they had married, and it had seemed excessive praise, though secretly he had been pleased. But now he knew there had been a measure of truth in her words, for only a night or two earlier that she had awakened from a troubling dream, and in the darkness she had sought him, she had put her arms about him. He'd stroked her hair, and spoken as gently as he knew how, but words had at length proven lacking, and it had been in near silence that he had given her comfort.

In fact he had lost every thought of sleep just then, and when he _did _sleep again, Laurie was nestled up against him still, her hand resting upon his chest, on his very heart. He'd thought of that a good deal since that night, even when he and Laurie were miles apart, perhaps especially when they were miles apart --

"I confess, Edward, that I am a little tired this evening," she said suddenly, and he looked up at her in surprise. She really was quite slender, his Laurie, and in this moment she seemed delicate and vulnerable, though he had he so often seen her striding briskly, almost defiantly independent, through the village and across the grounds at Hanbury. And yet she had trembled the other night, and sought refuge in his arms.

Another whim had captured her just now, though, and he saw mischief in her eyes as she added lightly, "Perhaps we should retire at once, lest I fall asleep as I stand here, and you have to catch me as I tumble over."

He felt himself smiling. "That would never do! Upstairs with you then, Mrs. Carter. Come."

* * *

It was an uncommonly beautiful morning, and he told Laurie as much while she was still drowsy and holding the bedclothes about her, as though she had made herself a nest and could not be disturbed. He almost laughed to see her so sleepy, indeed almost cross at his brisk energy this morning. But it _was_ a fine morning, and he was well pleased with it, well pleased with her and with his life.

He was moreover full of plans, and wanted to make a start before the day grew any older. Yet he looked back at Laurie, still curled up in the bed, and half-wished today were a holiday for them both.

Well, then, if it was not a holiday, at least it was a day full of promise, and he must be on his way. But before he went, he leaned over and put a kiss upon his drowsy wife, and felt her smile before he drew back.

* * *

Heavens, she was uncommonly tired this morning. Miss Pole wagered that want of sleep might leave her yawning the entire day. But if she was weary, she was by no means cross, for it was such a lovely day, lovelier than it had been in a great while, and her heart and mind were very much at peace.

For that she must grudgingly acknowledge a debt to Dr. Harrison, who had the previous evening assured them that all had gone just as it ought; indeed he had been well pleased in everything. But of course it was a small thing for a man to make such a pronouncement; the pain had not been his to endure.

And it had not been his task to spend much of the night in wakefulness, as she and Miss Matty and Martha had done. Indeed Miss Pole smiled at the thought that this morning Jem Hearne would have to shift for himself, and Mr. Jenkyns too, for the womenfolk had all had a great deal to do the previous evening, and were as yet too weary to attend overmuch to household duties.

Martha had returned home at last to see to her own baby, then take her rest, while Miss Matty and Miss Pole managed as well as they could during the long evening and in the night that had followed, though neither of them had cared to discuss the impropriety of employing the late Miss Brown's bed and, more shockingly still, the captain's own for stolen naps. Then again, perhaps one need not concern oneself overly with propriety when a neighbor was in need.

But once the long night was past, one _did_ need to think of brewing tea, and so Miss Pole quietly made her way downstairs, intent on that object, even if the maid had fallen asleep and she must boil the water herself.

What she had not expected, though, was that the front door should in that moment open to admit the master of the house, dusty top boots and all.

* * *

Whistling. He'd come home whistling.

That was by no means his usual habit, but it was such a beautiful day, and his heart was a good deal lighter, now that the ordeal was behind him.

He need not have worried, of course; Sir Charles had kept his word and proven a most steadfast advocate, and the other directors had evidently found the both of them persuasive. His position was secure, at least at present; that much he knew.

But perhaps best of all, he'd not kept away a day longer than necessary. Indeed he had set out for home as soon as it might be attempted, meaning to set Jessie's mind at rest, and surprise her with one or two little things he'd bought for her and the child.

But even the village itself was a fine sight on this uncommonly beautiful day, and he felt great contentment at being home once more, as well as relief at the prospect of comforting his Jessie.

With vigor of a much younger man he proceeded down the street and opened the door of his house and, on stepping inside, very nearly knocked Miss Pole to the floor. She was the last person he had expected to see, and he stood for a moment open-mouthed, taking in her presence but hardly noticing that she was was wearing her cap, as though quite at home, and looking at him with an expression of undisguised disapproval.

Barely able to form a thought, he began to speak.

"Miss Pole! Upon my word! Do forgive me; I must have given you a fright. But I had not thought to see -- that is, I did not believe -- no, surely it _cannot_ be that --"

"Captain Brown, pray moderate your voice!" Miss Pole whispered. "You are not shouting commands to workmen or soldiers now.

"And do not clomp about like a great dray horse! Now, if you please --"

And with that Miss Pole demurely drew up the hem of her gown and mounted the stairs. Captain Brown, treading as lightly as a very tall fellow might in top boots, followed behind her, watching her skirts switch from side to side as she proceeded.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Miss Pole paused outside a bedchamber and, turning to face him, held a finger to her lips in silent admonition. Then she gently opened the door.

The captain looked inside and saw Jessie curled up in what had been her bridal bed. She had not stirred at their approach, and it was evident she was yet in a very deep sleep. Surely she was well, though; there were no signs of restlessness or distress. But then it must also be true that she --

All at once the captain's attention was drawn to a figure in the chair next to the bed: Miss Matty, who held in her arms something wrapped in a shawl or blanket. With a smile but not a word she rose and softly walked towards him.

"Captain," she whispered huskily, looking down at the little bundle, "this is Flora."

* * *

Had she not wished to avoid disturbing Mrs. Gordon in her rest, Miss Pole ought to have strenuously objected when Miss Matty placed little Flora in Captain Brown's arms and left him seated comfortably by the bedside. Still, at least the old warrior was not marching about the house, now that a baby was present, and the child's mother still abed.

And so it was that Miss Matty, wearing a smile that should not have been out of place in a painting of the Angel Gabriel himself, left Captain Brown behind and accompanied Miss Pole downstairs, where they both might take tea and discuss the previous night's events.

"Upon my word, Miss Matty," said Miss Pole in a loud whisper as soon as they had reached the sitting room. "I should not have taken the captain for a suitable nurse. It quite makes me tremble to think of that infant left in his care. She shall put up a protest in due course; mark my words."

"But Captain Brown is so fond of children," said Miss Matty, who was smiling yet. "And I dare say he traveled all night to reach home. I should not have liked to have disappointed him."

"Hm." It was all the reply Miss Pole might venture.

"Besides, Mrs. Gordon will presently be awake. We must take her some refreshment, and her father as well."

"I should think Mrs. Gordon needs her rest more," opined Miss Pole. "She can hardly have slept the previous night."

"I should think not," said her companion primly.

"Still, Dr. Harrison said the medicine should permit her to sleep. She deserves no less, after the pain she endured."

"Dear Jessie did very well, did she not?" said Miss Matty approvingly. With a husky little chuckle, she added, "I dare say she has some of her father's courage."

Miss Pole snorted. "Surely you intended that as a compliment, Miss Matty," she said, "but there's no man alive who could do what Mrs. Gordon has just accomplished."

* * *

That night Mr. Carter told Harry he must take supper with them before his lesson, and so he'd come from the cowshed and scrubbed his hands and even his face, so well that Mr. Carter nodded and smiled at him before they both set off for the house. When they'd got there they had hardly had time to wipe their boots before Mrs. Carter opened the door to them both, smiling at Harry in her old way, as though she had been waiting just for him.

She smiled at Mr. Carter too, and looked glad to see him, even if she didn't let him kiss her the way Dada had always kissed Mum whenever he came home. But then she couldn't, not when Harry was there for his lesson.

"I called on Mrs. Gordon today," she said to her husband as she was taking up his hat to put away. "Captain Brown has come home again." At that she smiled so much that Harry thought it must be very good news. And it was, of course; he liked Captain Brown, who'd been so kind to Mum.

"Has he indeed?" said Mr. Carter, who did _not_ smile but looked just as he did whenever he was cross with Harry, or there was trouble at Hanbury. "I hope Sir Charles did the honorable thing when Captain Brown went before the board."

"Charles? I confess, Edward, that I did not think to ask, though Captain Brown did not seem much worried on that account. Indeed when I saw him he was chiefly concerned with the new acquaintance he had made."

"New acquaintance?"

Mrs. Carter smiled again, and said, "A little girl." She spoke in such a low voice that Harry could hardly hear it.

"A little girl? A little girl? You mean --"

"I do indeed."

Harry wanted to laugh at the way Mr. Carter looked just then, but he didn't dare. But Mrs. Carter was smiling again, as though she had a secret.

Mr. Carter must have known the secret too, for he was smiling now as well. "A little girl. Think of that! That is very fine news indeed, very fine news."

* * *

Martha didn't draw pictures the way Mrs. Carter did but even she thought it was a lovely sight whenever Miss Matty sat at the table in the garden, with Mr. Jenkyns across from her, and the baby resting in her basket beside them. Oh, Jem was right; little Matilda was just like a rosebud, so pink and pretty. Even now Martha laughed to see her daughter yawn with that tiny mouth of hers, and to see her kick up her soft little feet.

Miss Matty loved the baby too, and she often kept her company in the garden or in the sitting room, where there was sewing to take up or letters to write. So Martha felt easy in her mind about leaving the little one in the garden with Miss Matty, that she might steal across the street and see how Mrs. Gordon was getting on with _her_ baby.

Miss Jessie had been so afraid, of course, even before the pains had come, but she'd forgotten it all when she could hold Flora in her arms, and when her father came home again. Martha had always liked Captain Brown -- he'd always spoken kindly to her -- and she liked him the better when she saw him with the baby. He was a good deal worse than Jem, and made little noises at Flora, and looked at her as though she were made all of gold. Martha had to wonder at how such great hulking fellows grew so gentle once a baby was in the house.

Martha herself felt wise, now that Miss Jessie wanted to put a great many questions to her, and she answered so many that it was some time before she got back to the garden to see how Miss Matty and the little mite got on. Surely they'd be outdoors still; it was such a pretty day.

Yes, there they all were -- Miss Matty with the baby in her arms, and Mr. Jenkyns seated at the table with them. Martha nearly laughed again at the sight of Baby Matilda, who had found her little fist and was sucking it, as though it were something good to eat.

Miss Matty had not seen Martha coming, but she put a kiss on the baby's head, and then another. Her arms went round the little girl, gently and firmly, as though she feared to lose her.

"Miss Matty?"

Miss Matilda could say nothing, and Martha saw she had been crying. And Mr. Jenkyns, whose eyes had been so merry but an hour before, looked grave and thoughtful.

Then Martha saw he was holding a letter, a letter written in a fine and even hand.

* * *

_My dear, faithful friend,_

_I shall attempt to express the comfort I felt when I saw your letter awaiting me, but I fear I shall not be equal to the task. Only know, Sophy, that I took it up at once and read it, and it was very nearly as though you were standing beside me, speaking to me as you have done so many times before, and I was greatly consoled. _

_That I should have such friends as you and good Miss Matty seems a blessing from heaven itself. I know there is no trial I face at present that you both have not suffered in full measure, or indeed to a greater degree, and with a measure of faith and courage I should very much like to achieve._

_Perhaps with your father's tutelage I shall make a beginning. I must tell you I was very moved by the gentleness of his expression, but perhaps only a father who has known grief could have written such a letter, or offered such assurances. Little Rachel, he says, is now beyond all suffering and tears, all pain and sin and wrongdoing, and we shall see her again presently, when God takes us to Himself. "Of such is the kingdom of God." Sophy, dare I hope that it may be so?_

_I confess to you there are times when the emptiness in my heart is not to be fled. I have tried to read, tried to pray, but -- and this must shock you – nothing seems to avail. It as though the very doors of heaven are locked against my entreaties._

_Yet I must rally, for my father's sake, and my poor stepmother and the children. The little ones are around me constantly, and I spend much time with Papa, and sit with Mama as often as we both can bear it._

_Yet it is a curious thing that a house so filled with people should prove such a lonely place. Mama is so dreadfully silent – just now I would trade all I possess to hear her laughing and gossiping again -- and there is a look in her eyes I have never seen before. Sophy, I do not think I have ever seen such sad eyes._

_But the sorrow is not in Mama's eyes alone; indeed it is all about us. Of the children, only the two eldest understand, in their fashion, what has come to pass. But the others know something is amiss, and even little Ralph at times goes here and there about the house, as though searching for something or someone, and asking, "Baby? Baby?" I cannot describe how painful it is for Mama and Papa to hear his plaintive, innocent question. It is all the worse for having no possible reply._

_Sophy, I so long to see your dear face, and Miss Matty's, and speak to both of you, and to Jessie. I confess I might even enjoy a lengthy conversation with Martha at this moment, and indeed would give a great deal to walk the streets of Cranford, whether dusty or muddy, and endure Mrs. Johnson's brazen efforts to sell Miss Matty lengths of cloth she does not need, and see Miss Pole, bonnet quivering, bustle down the street in search of a recipient for some choice bit of gossip. But I am here in Manchester, and the days we spent together in Cranford seem very long past._

_You will wonder why I have not mentioned Jack. Oh, Sophy, that is worst of all. It took nearly all my strength to write the letter telling him the news, and it breaks my heart to think of him unfolding the paper and learning what has happened. _

_I had thought it a very prudent decision to send him to Glasgow, where he might avail himself of every connection and opportunity. Yet I have a hundred times repented my words to him at our parting, and wish that I had persuaded him to remain in Manchester. Such a confession must be given to your keeping, for you are too kind to utter a word of my selfishness to anyone._

_There is more I must admit, if you will indulge me. At times I imagine myself at the brook at Cranford, or at the Tomkinsons' on Christmas Eve, or in the little house in Princess Street, and Jack is always there. And in the watches of the night, when sleep at last arrives, my dreams are all filled with Rachel and with my mother, and of course with all my friends, but also with Jack as well. Indeed there are nights when I seem to spend all my time traveling to Glasgow or to London to see him, yet I never arrive, or, if I do, I cannot find Jack, and when I awake, it is very much as though I had not slept at all._

_Sophy, what should you have done, had you been parted from Frank? I cannot imagine it. You must be content enough for both of us, then, and assure me that there will be a time when we all meet, let alone laugh, again._

_Do write again as soon as your duties permit, and give my kindest regards to Frank, and to your good father, and Helen and Lizzie._

_Very truly yours,_

_Mary Smith_

_********************  
_

_To be continued..._


	35. Beyond Words

The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow** for the small screen. It's basically a love letter to an entire community.** C of C** expands on that, and on love stories that were only hinted at in the BBC series.

Many, many thanks to my faithful and kind readers for your reviews and encouragement. I love hearing from each and every one of you, and do take your comments very much to heart.

I wanted to finish this chapter more than a week ago, but the Halloween goblins performed their mischief on my computer, and only the heroic intervention of a neighbor (Thanks, Dave!) rescued me from what would have surely been several days of being offline _and_ away from my characters and all of you. May it never be!

**Chapter 35: Beyond Words**

_There is more silence than language in love. Martin C. Helldorfer_**  
**

* * *

The baby stirred in his arms, her little mouth working. Major Gordon held his breath for a moment, then released it, as his daughter neither made a sound nor woke up. There should be peace, then, for a time -- though not long, he knew, not long at all -- that Jessie might take what she could of rest.

Of course Flora might protest loudly if she opened her eyes to find only her father there, and then her mother would take her again. But for this moment, at least, awkward though he was, he could hold the child in his arms as she slept.

He'd not be parted from her, nor from his Jessie, ever again. He had resolved as much to himself.

* * *

Laurentia ran her hand across the cream-colored linen -- a shirt, freshly washed and pressed and, she remembered, newly mended, though of course no one should see that. Indeed Edward should cut an impressive, perhaps even imposing, figure before bankers, merchants, and anyone else he must see during the next few days.

She had been much engaged in assisting him with preparations for his journey, perhaps to distract herself from the thought that this was to be the first parting in their marriage. Indeed she was startled to remember that she had not spent a night alone since quitting Hanbury Court as a guest.

But while her husband was away she should have a great deal to engage her, and the society of Lady Ludlow, Mrs. Morgan, and even young Harry, who, to Laurentia's amusement, had offered to keep her company one evening, and would come for a lesson, much as he always did.

Meanwhile, Edward should be away from them both, that he might accomplish what he could on behalf of Hanbury.

Laurentia had not a little anxiety about his prospects in that regard. Though Lady Ludlow had shown a touching humility in her embrace of Edward's economies, and had consequently effected some improvement in her circumstances, there remained as yet several concerns, especially with regard to Septimus's expenses. Now Edward was determined to exploit the advent of the railway to her ladyship's best advantage, and seek new arrangements for the sale of Hanbury goods.

He loved the estate as well as if he were to inherit it himself, and would have made almost any sacrifice in its service, indeed already had proven as much. But Edward believed this new effort should in the end secure their hopes, and though it was with reluctance Laurentia sent him away, his cause was her own, and she willingly performed any task he asked, if it might ease the path before him.

So it was that she placed one or two things more into the traveling case, and prayed, with all her heart, that Edward's work should prosper.

* * *

Bachelorhood, thought Ferguson, had given him a refined understanding of that curious breed of womankind known as the landlady. More often than not she proved fierce and formidable, as the specimen before him no doubt would, but he'd traveled a good many miles this day and was not about to be put off by a woman whose very countenance might curdle milk.

Besides, his ancestors had faced far worse, and he must prove a credit to them.

"Good day to you, madam," he said, as warmly as he could, to the dour woman standing before him. "Pray forgive the interruption. I've come from Edinburgh, and wished to have the pleasure of calling upon my colleague Dr. Marshland."

At that the fearsome lady actually smiled. "Dr. Ferguson, is it? I was told to expect you. Do come in, and I'll summon Dr. Marshland."

Safely inside, Ferguson was led to the front room and briefly abandoned by his hostess. From somewhere within the house he heard her call primly, "Dr. Marshland, there's a gentleman to see you."

Ferguson was taken aback when his friend stepped through the door. Even with their days at Guy's well behind them, Marshland had kept the lean appearance of a medical student, but now he was a degree thinner than he had been. Either his kind landlady did not set such a generous table, or Jack had been so engaged in his work -- and in missing that lass of his, of course -- that he'd no time for meals. Ferguson suspected he knew which of those it was.

For all that he was approaching gauntness, though, the the Irishman had not entirely lost his ready smile, nor even the gleam in his eyes.

"I see I've been misled, Alan. There's no gentleman here to see me at all, only you."

"Well, come to see you I have," said Ferguson, with exaggerated gruffness. "For my sins."

"It was good of you to come," replied Jack warmly, and with that they clasped hands.

"Now then, it's been far too long since I've been to Glasgow, and from the look of you, it's been too long since you've been out of doors. Shall we walk?"

"If you like. I've a good deal to tell you, Alan. A good deal."

* * *

The first order of business was some vigorous exercise. A man became prematurely aged, Ferguson knew, if he spent too much time indoors and hunched over his medical texts. They should have a walk, he proposed, then order a good dinner. From the look of Jack, he was quite urgently in need of it.

At that suggestion the Irishman smiled again, and nearly laughed, though not quite. "It's good to have you here, Alan. "

"Are things so bad as that? I should have thought you'd find me dull, with the august company you've been keeping."

"They're men, like any others," said Jack, with unexpected seriousness. "And one day's like another here. Mind you, sometimes it rains," he added, displaying some of his old merriment.

Ferguson chuckled. "And even the rain is not a novelty."

"As it wasn't in Manchester," said Marshland shortly.

"No," said Ferguson, forcing another chuckle. They walked on in silence for a moment before he added, "Jack, I should not expect for you to want to make your home here, but it's a fine thing you're doing. A man should sell all he has to have such an opportunity."

"I very nearly have." And with that pronouncement Marshland's voice was uncharacteristically bleak.

"Come now, Jack," said his friend, as lightly as he could. 'It will not be long before you give Miss Smith your name and, I dare say, several wee Marshlands to tug at her skirts besides, and you'll never remember it was any different, once you have a household of your own."

Marshland sighed. "I can't say when that will be, Alan."

"No? I had thought her father had given his consent."

"That he has. But there will be no weddings in the family while they are all deeply in mourning."

"In mourning?"

"For Mary's little half-sister, not a year old."

"Not a year old!" Ferguson paused in mid-stride and turned to look at his friend. "I am sorry, Jack, truly sorry for Miss Smith and all her family."

"And the worst of it, Alan -- no, I should not say the worst, but it all seems a good deal worse for being parted from Mary. I've written my condolences to her mother and father, and a good many more letters to Mary herself -- every night, if I can -- but it's a poor sort of comfort I'm giving when she is in Manchester and I am here.

"But I gave my word, Alan. I pledged myself in two senses, and I'll make a bad job of both, it seems, when my mind is one place, and my body's another."

Ferguson spoke as softly and carefully as he could. "Miss Smith will understand, Jack. I dare say she knows very well what it means to wed a physician." There was a little pause as they began walking again, and then he added, "You've always told me she's as canny as she is bonny."

Jack made no reply at first, but walked on slowly, deliberately. "You've not seen Mary as yet," he said at last, smiling, though he'd turned his gaze towards something in the distance. "Such eyes she has, Alan. I wish I'd a portrait of her with me now."

"I shall see her soon enough. You'll be wed before you know it," said his friend kindly. "Now then," he continued, resuming a brisk tone. "I'd wager we both have appetite enough for a hearty dinner, and I know just the place."

With that Ferguson clapped a hand on Marshland's shoulder, and they set off at a livelier pace.

* * *

_Dear Jack,_

_I confess I never thought blotched ink beautiful before now, but I shall think it so from henceforth, for when your letter arrived and I saw the envelope, with its direction in your dear, familiar script, my heart leapt up. As soon as I might, I made my way to my room, to read without interruption. And once I was there, it was very much as though I heard your voice speaking to me, and felt your hand upon mine, and drew comfort and strength from it._

_I smiled, for what seemed the first time in a great while, when I read that you would rather have earned your bread by digging ditches, if only we might have wed as soon as the banns were called. _

_But you must not reproach yourself, Jack, nor wish yourself elsewhere. I understand very well why you had to make your journey. Truly it is a good thing you are doing at present, something which must in time allow you to provide hope where none was before, and moreover it is not every man who could undertake such a task. I do not pretend to understand your work, but as Mr. Carter rightly observed, waste is a sin, and it would be a great pity to squander such talents and abilities as your own. _

_Jack, I hope we shall count ourselves all the more richly blessed, once we are together again, for having been parted in such a fashion, that you might secure our fondest hopes. I pray it may be so._

_But perhaps it is wrong to speak of future blessings when we each of us have our work, and our faithful friends. I was pleased to hear that your colleague Dr. Ferguson was to visit you, and that you already had acquaintance in Glasgow as well. It is a great comfort to know that you are among such amiable people._

_As for myself, I can report that dear Miss Matty has been ever faithful in her correspondence, and Mrs. Harrison too. Even Miss Pole, with an admirable degree of kindness if not tact, has taken it upon herself to provide me a weekly report of all the news from Cranford. So it was that I learned that Captain Brown has a new little granddaughter, Flora, and (for so my informant has it) displays a lamentable want of dignity by making the most absurd noises to amuse and distract the baby; and that Major Gordon has returned from Scotland to be most joyously reunited with his little family; and that Mrs. Gordon is very well, despite living in a very small house with two very tall men, who have no more idea of baby-tending than they do of flying through the air._

_I have as well received very kind letters from Mrs. Carter, and the Reverend Hutton, and Helen and Lizzie. They all bade me send you their warmest regards, which I do most wholeheartedly. The rector thought as well to write to me of marriage, and to assure me that along with its responsibilities it affords mutual help, and comfort, and that we should understand that the better for our current trials. He is a man who has known every manner of grief himself, Jack, and I shall take his advice very much to heart._

_There are occasions, though, I must confess, when I draw my consolation not from what is to be but what has come before. __When I close my eyes on a summer night, I conjure the image of the brook in Cranford, and imagine myself there, seated on the bank, and you approaching on horseback. When I am thus diverted, there are no sorrows, no vexations, and we are together, content to enjoy the leisure of an hour in the cool shade._

_But it is not only towards the brook at Cranford that my thoughts wander. I think of our happy Christmas Eve with the Misses Tomkinson, and of May Day, and of our walk upon the grounds of Hanbury, with all the roses in bloom. __With every such memory, Jack, it does not feel as though you are quite so far away.__ You will forgive my indulgence in such whimsies, I know, and perhaps think happily on those days yourself as you go about your work.  
_

_I keep very busy here, even if one day is like another, but for Sunday, when Mama has insisted we must continue to attend matins. To be sure the church is grander than the one in Cranford, and the vicar a most learned and eloquent man, and the other parishioners accord Papa the proper respect. But I confess I can think of little else but walking arm in arm to that austere little village church with Miss Matty, and of hearing Captain Brown's strong deep voice during every hymn the congregation attempts. The music is finer in Manchester, though not, I think, as heartfelt._

_What was that song you sang at the Tomkinsons' party that Christmas Eve, Jack? I cannot recall the words, yet I thought it both merry and melancholy at once. That seemed strange at the time, but I have learned a great deal since that night, and now see that joy and sorrow are twins. Perhaps you had long ago learned as much yourself._

_As I write these lines your letters are resting safely upon the table. They are never far from me, when I am otherwise alone, and I trust it will not be too long before another joins their number, that I might learn how your work prospers, and that you are well and happy.  
_

_With all my heart, I remain ever your  
_

_Mary  
_

* * *

"Are you sad that Mr. Carter has gone away?"

Mrs. Carter looked up from the book and smiled at Harry. "Mr. Carter has duties to perform for Lady Ludlow, and cannot accomplish them all at Hanbury. But he will be home on Friday, Harry, and I am glad of it."

"Mum -- my mother didn't like it when Dada went away -- when my father went away."

"No." Mrs. Carter said the word very softly. She said nothing more, but there was light enough yet here in the garden that Harry could see that her eyes were sad.

"But Dada -- my father," he continued, "always brought something when he came home."

"Did he?" Mrs. Carter's smile returned, and her eyes grew brighter. "What sorts of things did he bring?"

"Bread, cheese, apples. Eggs, sometimes, and buns."

"Did you like that?"

"Oh, yes. But he never brought books, like Mr. Carter does."

"Mr. Carter _is_ uncommonly fond of books," said Mrs. Carter. "Talking of books, shall I read some more, Harry, or should you like a turn?"

"I like to hear you read."

Mrs. Carter smiled at him once more and, opening the covers of **The Adventures of Oliver Twist, or the Parish Boy's Progress**, found the place where they had left off reading.

* * *

"If you would prefer, Laurentia, you might stay at Hanbury Court while your husband is away," said Lady Ludlow, almost lightly, as she bent to inspect the full white blooms on one of her rose bushes.

"You are very kind, Lady Ludlow, but I should not like to put you to any trouble."

Lady Ludlow straightened up and faced her companion. "You know you are most welcome, Laurentia. I should enjoy the company, and do not care to see Mr. Carter leaving his bride bereft."

Such a sweet smile had Laurentia! Lady Ludlow had often seen it, but had not thought until now how endearingly girlish it remained.

"You need have no worries in that regard, Lady Ludlow," said Laurentia, still smiling. "Mr. Carter has left me a protector."

"Or protectors, rather, I should expect," said Lady Ludlow, moving towards the next rose bush. "Mrs. Greenfield is most capable and reliable, and has brought up her son very well, and you may trust them both implicitly."

"I do, Lady Ludlow, but I was speaking of Harry Gregson."

"Harry Gregson?"

"Yes, my lady. He was very worried that I should be lonely and, with my husband's leave, has more than once come to sit with me in the evening. But then he often does so, and reads aloud to us. I dare say Edward intends that it should be a proper lesson, but surely it is no secret that it also amuses Harry as well. Children love stories, as you know."

"Yes." Lady Ludlow uttered the word more abruptly than she meant to, and Laurentia blushed lightly, evidently disconcerted.

When next she spoke, it was slowly, deliberately, as though choosing her words with care. "My lady, Mr. Carter has taught Harry to love the written word, or I dare say he merely watered the seed that was already planted, for Harry has a natural curiosity."

"Indeed." Lady Ludlow allowed a little silence to settle between them before saying, in as dispassionate a tone as she could produce, "And you see no danger in that, Laurentia?"

"Lady Ludlow," said her friend, in a soft yet firm voice, "Harry is a clever boy, and a very gentle one. I find that he is a good deal wiser than many are at that age, and has evident talents and abilities --"

"Oh, Laurentia," sighed Lady Ludlow, more in sorrow than reproach.

But her companion had not done yet. "Moreover he has been entrusted with considerable responsibility, young though he is. It would be unkind and indeed unjust to deny him the few pleasures he has.

"And of course Harry has no mother," she added, with a look that fairly pierced Lady Ludlow's heart.

"No," replied her ladyship. "He has no mother." They walked in silence for a moment -- Laurentia's eyes cast downward, Lady Ludlow gravely surveying the lawns before them.

"I understand that the boy's father is much improved, indeed has proven a most faithful and reliable employee," she said, as they advanced forward. "I have not yet seen it for myself, but I have no reason to doubt your husband's word."

"Indeed Mr. Carter has been most agreeably astonished in that regard, but perhaps he ought not to be. I think Mr. Gregson feels the loss of his wife exceedingly, and is ever mindful of the six children who remain under his care."

"Yes. I do not doubt that," replied Lady Ludlow softly. _Grief_. How strong, how merciless was its grasp on the heart!

"Laurentia." She turned to face the younger woman. "I confess that I feel in need of refreshment just now, and propose that we take tea on the terrace. Will you come with me?"

"Thank you, Lady Ludlow. I should be very happy to."

* * *

Mama had astonished her yet again.

At first her grief had taken the usual form -- seclusion, weeping -- to be followed by an untimely and almost frantic summoning of the doctor, that they should have proof that none of the surviving children displayed signs of illness, as indeed they had not. Mary found such behavior unsettling but entirely excusable, especially when Mama's sorrow was so new and her loss so entire.

The resumption of regular attendance at matins had not been expected, however. Clara had long paid a good deal more attention to her toilette than her prayer book, but now the fashionable Mrs. Smith, in newly austere garb, never needed church bells to summon her to worship, and to gather her little flock about her as she did so. Mary's heart fairly ached to see the stoic expression on Mama's face at such times, and the grim set of Papa's jaw. They both seemed at once a good deal older, especially Papa.

Only the restlessness of her young sisters and brothers provided Mary an odd sort of comfort. At least that remained unchanged.

Of course the family could enjoy no amusement while they were in mourning, and saw few people apart from their relations and the vicar. It was therefore astonishing when, having observed the regular delivery of letters from young Mrs. Harrison, Mama proposed that Mary invite her dear friend to spend a few days with them in Manchester -- that is, provided her husband could spare her. Frank had, of course, made no objection to the plan, and in due course Sophy had arrived to see them.

Mary never knew whether it was kindness, gratitude, or desperation that had inspired Mama to extend the invitation, but she immediately saw the wisdom of it. Few guests could be as tactful, and as undemanding, as young Mrs. Harrison. Moreover she was fond of children, and eager to be of use to her hostess, and so unobtrusively assisted with the care and amusement of all the little Smiths, who found her quite as likable as they had the "Marsh-man" in happier days.

Mary herself was grateful for the society of a woman of her own age, and the prospect of once again exchanging confidences. Neither she nor Sophy was particularly given to subterfuge, and yet they had felt it necessary to conceal certain matters from Clara, for fear of worsening her already considerable grief.

So it was that breakfast time, at least on the first morning of the visit, had proven awkward when Sophy had declined richer fare in favor of tea and toast. Mary had stolen a glance at her stepmother and detected a hard, decidedly suspicious expression in those ever-watchful eyes. But in a trice the severe look was gone, and Clara gave way, and thereafter offered only tea and toast to Mrs. Harrison in the mornings, along with a polite inquiry after her health.

* * *

There was, moreover, another great secret.

Not long after Sophy's arrival, she and her friend had repaired to Mary's room, that she might fulfill a commission from Miss Matilda Jenkyns.

"I own I do not know what it is in it myself," said Sophy, presenting a parcel to Mary. "But Miss Matty was most insistent than I bring it. There is a note as well."

* * *

_My dear Mary,_

_I was seeing to one or two matters in your room during your absence and discovered the enclosed treasures, and so have asked Mrs. Harrison to take them to you. It was not without some hesitation that I did so, for what I have sent might well inspire memories that at present may prove too painful to bear. But it troubled me very much to think they should go unseen, and you know best whether to keep them to hand, or to put them away until your grief is no longer new._

_My dear Mary, I shall write to you very soon, and provide what news I might, though I dare say Miss Pole already performs that service in superior fashion. But I know there can be no surfeit of correspondence from friends, and so will take up my pen anew._

_My brother sends his warmest regards, as do Martha and Jem. Martha always asks for any news of you and your family, and of course keeps your room well aired and well dusted, and ever in readiness._

_The white roses are in bloom, Mary, and I often think of placing one of them in the vase in your bedchamber. But it should go unseen there, and so I leave all flowers at peace in the garden, where all may see and enjoy them, and where they await your return._

_I shall as well keep you and your dear family always in my prayers._

_Your friend_

_Matilda Jenkyns_

_********************  
_

"Oh --"

Mary fell silent as she drew the wrapping away from Miss Matty's treasures: the sketch of Jack, looking somewhat untidy but handsome, and characteristically merry, and the portrait of Mary herself, with little Rachel resting in her arms.

"Oh, Sophy." Mary looked first at one, then the other, as her eyes filled with tears. "Miss Galindo -- that is, Mrs. Carter -- made these on May Day, when we were all so happy."

Sophy put her arm about her friend as they studied the pictures in silence. "They are very good likenesses," she said at last. "Mrs. Carter must be very talented."

Mary briefly raised her eyes from the portraits and turned to Sophy. "Yes," she said, smiling, despite her tears. "Yes, she must."

* * *

Edward had seen miniatures in her ladyship's possession, and even had heard something of this new means of creating likenesses -- the photograph, he thought it was called -- and fervently wished he had such things at his disposal, now that he must be parted from his wife. A portrait capturing Laurie's fine dark eyes and provoking little chin ought to have provided him happy memories of home, and of her, as he went about his duties.

Indeed he was astonished to realize that he found it unsettling to be among strangers, and away from Laurie's help and influence. When evening came, he should have liked to have given her report of how he had spent the day, what he had accomplished, and see in her eyes, if not hear from her lips, what she thought of the entire proceeding.

But he should be home on Friday, of course, and by then have a better idea of how his efforts had fared. Till then he must content himself with civil greetings from stranger and acquaintance alike, and with such comforts as inns provided. That was hardest. During the day there were distractions enough, but at night he longed to hear Laurie's voice, and to enjoy her company.

He had to smile when he remembered how she had once been to him, how she had vexed and provoked him at at every turn. "Mr. Carter," she'd say archly, the pitch of her voice a touch higher, just before she made some observation or posed some question certain to discomfit him.

He could not have known then that with time her voice would have a very different effect, and her silences yet another, and he liked both very well indeed. Now when she called him, it was by his Christian name, and her voice was invariably soft and tender -- that is, unless she'd found some reason to be vexed with him!

And when she was silent, it was often enough his doing, he thought, smiling. Indeed he never felt so well contented as he did in those moments when, almost without speaking, they might take comfort, and pleasure, in once more being alone together.

* * *

"Miss Pole has proposed that I exult in the natural freedom of the spinster, and have things just as I please, while Edward is away."

"And will you do so, Laurentia?" said Mrs. Morgan, smiling.

"I own that I can think of nothing in particular that should please me and displease Edward, save taking the sort of supper I prefer," she said, pouring a cup of tea. "Then I need not go to Mr. Goddard's. But I take pleasure in walking to the village, and even in ordering a fillet or some such thing for Edward's supper, and so it seems not much of a holiday to have my husband away. Indeed I will confess to you that the house appears dreadfully empty late at night, and I have been overly liberal with my candles."

At such a bleak prospect, Mrs. Morgan could not find it in her heart to reproach her friend. "You have had no troubling dreams?" she inquired delicately.

"Plentiful, sometimes odd, but by no means troubling," said Mrs. Carter, with a wry smile. "I dreamed the other night that Harry Gregson, dressed as a young gentleman, was to accompany Edward to Manchester, where they were to see to a business matter of some consequence."

Mrs. Morgan laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"They were both very much in earnest! And the night before it was all of Miss Matty and the most charming little girl -- neither Matilda nor Flora, but another child, a child I did not know. Indeed I have often dreamed of children in these last days," added Mrs. Carter. A little pause ensued, and Mrs. Morgan could hear the very ticking of the clock as they each were alone with their thoughts.

"Will you not speak to Edward, Laurentia?" said Mrs. Morgan at last. "Will you not at least reveal your suspicions?"

"If I am mistaken, Isobel, it should prove a terrible disappointment to him."

"But he is your husband," said Mrs. Morgan delicately. "Surely you can entrust this secret to him."

"If my suspicions are correct, it shall not remain a secret!" said Mrs. Carter. "But Edward has so many responsibilities just now, Isobel. I should not like to give him additional cause for worry."

"But it is surely cause for joy as well," said Mrs. Morgan simply.

"I pray it may be. But I have not yet found the words to speak to Edward of such a thing. Is that not strange?"

Mrs. Morgan thought back over her two years in Cranford, and dozens of misbegotten exchanges with young Dr. Harrison, and even with her husband of less than a year, Dr. Morgan.

"Perhaps not, Laurentia," she said kindly. "Perhaps not."

* * *

Mary felt newly bereft after Sophy had set off again for Cranford. Somehow relations and friends in Manchester could not supplant the acquaintance she had formed in Cranford, and she knew she would await arrival of the post as anxiously as heretofore.

The leave-taking itself had been most awkward, with Mama outwardly gracious yet also noticeably relieved at Mrs. Harrision's departure. Perhaps any guest, no matter how quiet and tactful, should have proven too much for Clara this early in their bereavement, or perhaps she was discomfited by the presence of the watchful Sophy herself, or for another reason. Mary could not tell, and she dared not speak of it to Mama.

But at least Sophy's visit should provide more news for Jack, and when a few hours had passed since the departure, and the household was quiet, Mary stole away to her room to write the letter she had been composing to herself all the day.

On opening the door, she was startled to see a figure seated upon her own bed.

"Mama?"

For a moment Clara neither moved nor made a sound but kept her eyes upon the drawing of Mary and Rachel.

"Mama --"

Clara lifted her head to look at her stepdaughter, and Mary saw in her expression both pain and wonder.

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Mama, I did not wish to grieve you," said Mary softly.

"Grieve me? How can it grieve me?" said Clara, glancing from Mary to the picture. Then, in a very low voice, she asked, "Did Mrs. Harrison draw this?"

"No, Mama. It was Mrs. Carter," said Mary gently. "On May Day."

"On May Day."

"And she drew Jack's portrait as well."

"Yes," said Clara quietly.

"Miss Matty had kept them for me, Mama," said Mary in haste, as though speaking might spare her stepmother more tears. "She was afraid that it might be too painful to see them, but she would not keep them, Mama, when I was in Manchester. But I shall put them away, if you like --"

"Put them away? No," said Clara softly. "You must not put them away. I did not know," she added, shaking her head. "I did not know."

"What did you not know?" prompted Mary gently.

"That there was a picture," whispered Clara, her voice breaking. "That there was a picture of my little angel."

* * *

Laurentia took to envisioning Edward's face when he should return to her that evening. He no doubt would call at the great house first, that he might make his report to Lady Ludlow, and attend a good many matters besides, but she was certain he would return home as early as might be attempted. She wondered if he might prove weary, perhaps even vexed. If the former, it might be an unsuitable time to speak to him; if the latter – well, perhaps that was even worse.

She knew well enough to soothe and distract him at such times, or perhaps on occasion to leave him to his own devices. Unfortunately she could judge nothing until she saw him and determined the nature of his mood.

It should be written on his face, she thought, the instant she saw him. Oh, he would surely smile at her, and there should be tenderness in those eyes -- those eyes that could seem so hard when he was angry -- but she should soon know whether his journey had proved a success or no, and it would grieve her very much if it was the latter.

As to her own mood, she had an unaccountable desire to remain with him in silence for a time – sitting upon his knee, perhaps, or resting against his chest. She so loved those moments in the evenings and the early mornings when he put protective arms around her, and she fairly curled about him. At those times she was wholly at peace, and her very heart seemed shielded from worry and danger.

She had not spoken such thoughts to Edward, not since that day before their wedding. But perhaps he had not forgotten, and perhaps he felt as she did. Indeed in such moments no words seemed necessary to complete their happiness, or give voice to their mutual affection.

* * *

So Carter was back. Job hadn't expected to be pleased to see him, but he was, and if they had as little to say to each other as ever, at least there were no harsh words. A nod, a curt, "Very good," and that was all. But his eyes looked out sharply from beneath his hat brim, seeing everything that went on, and if he'd noted something amiss, Job should have heard about it. Carter knew when a man had done a good day's work, and would tell him as much, one way or another.

But he was fair, Carter was, and never asked what he would not do himself. A man could trust him, Job thought. He was beginning to see why Bella had thought well of Carter, and why Harry followed him about like a spaniel. Folk respected him, and only Lady Ludlow herself could bend his will.

* * *

It was well that he traveled so little, on estate affairs or otherwise. This afternoon Hopkins had sorely tried his patience with a recitation of all the ills that had befallen the estate over the previous two days. It made Edward grateful for Gregson's taciturn ways -- a few words, and his account of himself was complete.

The conversation with her ladyship had required a different sort of patience, as it was evident she was not entirely convinced of the value of his plan. Moreover she as yet appeared to regard any discussion of money as beneath her, though there had been relief in her eyes when Edward explained that Hanbury goods would fetch a better price in the city, and that he had accordingly made new arrangements with various merchants.

He could sense too that she had subtly begun to defer to him, perhaps seeing that his efforts were beginning to bear fruit. Neither of them need speak of it, of course, but he saw it just the same, and knew what it cost her in pride. He prayed to God that in this case, at least, her trust would not be misplaced.

And he wished very much to be home as quickly as possible, that he might tell Laurie all that had had happened.

* * *

She had been watching for him when he had arrived. The set of his jaw and shoulders suggested confidence, the look in his eyes bespoke weariness, but the subtle smile upon his lips gave her to understand that all was well, or as well as could be expected.

Over supper she let him talk, and had only to put a few questions to him to learn everything she wished to know, and a good deal more besides. It was some time before their conversation turned from Edward's journey to other matters, specifically how Laurentia had spent that week, and how Harry had got on during his lessons.

"Very well for the most part, Edward, though I confess that one evening I read to him, and not the reverse. Indeed I had not the heart to refuse, as he said he liked to hear my voice. Is that not curious?"

The subtle smile reappeared on Edward's lips, and his eyes gleamed in the light. "No, it is not curious, Mrs. Carter, not in the least."

* * *

He really ought not to have thought his study a suitable hiding place.

"Laurentia!"

She started, straightened up, holding one of his shirts in her hands. He had surprised her as she was bending over his traveling case, no doubt to collect one or two things for the washing basket, and very near to discovering the gifts he had concealed within. The surprises for Harry's twelfth birthday should of course pose no problem -- she might see them at once -- but the things he'd purchased for her own birthday were another matter.

He cursed his lack of forethought. Of course she had assisted him in packing his things, and would certainly think nothing of collecting his shirts after the journey. Was he really so damnably unused to having a wife to look after him?

But he truly had not thought Laurie would breach his study, and so create this awkward situation. She stood looking back at him with her large dark eyes, and all words stuck in his throat.

"Laurie," he said at last, in what he hoped was his gentler voice. "You look tired."

"Tired?" she echoed.

"I mean that perhaps you should retire." He smiled awkwardly, then thought the better of his words. "_We_ ought to retire. It has been a busy few days." It was all true enough, and yet he felt he had not improved things much.

"Indeed it has, Edward," said she, raising her eyebrows.

With that she glided out of the room, leaving him ashamed of his tactlessness, and pondering a suitable explanation.

* * *

It was likely Edward had not noticed the smile upon her face when she had swept out of the room, just piqued enough to leave him in doubt of her mood.

He'd come very near to scolding her as though she were Harry. She had not expected that, but perhaps he preferred to unpack his own case, or perhaps he was concealing some secret from her. If it was the former, that was not so very astonishing, and if the latter, she knew Edward well enough that his purpose, whatever it might be, should bear scrutiny -- with time. Indeed she suspected she knew it already.

Still, she did not much care to be reproved, and so had indulged a whim to be perversely demure, even distant with Edward until such time as he might turn to her and give every assurance of his regard, though without words. Words should not be necessary -- she did not require or need apology or explanation -- and she suspected that Edward preferred it so, and she very nearly did as well.

After all, words could prove elusive. For all that Edward and she had been parted for several days, she had as yet not found the words to tell him a secret of her own.

* * *

It was some time before he came upstairs to the bedroom. She'd laid off her blue gown and put on a soft white nightdress. He saw her perched on the bed, demurely braiding her hair, and he fully expected her to be prim and distant with him, given his abruptness downstairs.

Instead she looked up as he entered the room, and smiled, her dimples evident even by candlelight.

There had been something he was about to do, some task he must see to, but he forgot it, forgot everything, even words, and went to her.

And if she was cross with him, she gave no sign of it, not in the least.

* * *

The austere, lonely rooms of his travels were but a vague memory, the anxieties that had attended him had been banished, and it seemed to Edward paradise itself to be home in his own bed -- no, _their_ bed -- with Laurie nestled against him.

Of course he still had a great deal to say to her, as though they had been apart a year rather than a few days, but just now exhaustion was overtaking him, and sleep seemed very tempting. He shifted in bed slightly, keeping his arm about Laurie, and could feel her stroking his hand with hers, and hear her murmuring something as he was growing ever drowsier.

* * *

Edward had been away only a few days, but Laurentia doubted very much Odysseus himself had been made so welcome after all his years of wandering. She trusted that her husband understood that she was by no means cross with him, and felt nothing but pleasure at his being home again.

There was no need, moreover, to speak of their mutual affection, at least not just then, but they _must_ speak of other matters, and soon. The very thought banished any creeping drowsiness, and as Laurie lay close to Edward, fairly curled about him, she found her mind too active for sleep.

"Edward, are you yet awake?" she said softly. There was no other reply than his steady, even breathing. She was not about to wake him, though even as he slept she caressed his hand with her thumb, as she'd done for him before. He stirred a little, and murmured something, yet did not wake up to hear what it was she wished to tell him.

Perhaps it was just as well. Between Hanbury Court and the new school, he had a good deal to engage him, and she might wait a few weeks more, until she was confident she had good news to report. She remembered Isobel's counsel and felt a measure of guilt for having told Edward nothing of her suspicions. Yet he needed her affection and support now quite as much as he had ever done, and could live very well without knowing of the existence of yet another responsibility.

And as for herself, she needed time to become accustomed to the idea.

_To be continued…_


	36. The Good That We Do

The following is based on characters from the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and** My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have taken numerous liberties with the canon and will continue to do so, but would note that this particular chapter includes specific references to **My Lady Ludlow**.

Many, many thanks to my supportive readers, most particularly those of you who have been posting reviews and providing other feedback. I think you love the characters just as much as I do.

**Chapter 36: The Good That We Do**

The night before he was to depart Glasgow for London, Jack had the worst of his nightmares.

Of course he'd had dreams fit for a madman since the day he'd left Manchester -- all manner of nonsense, such as going to New York by railway -- by railway! And a queer railway it was, too, burrowing under the ground like an animal. Such a mad idea.

On other nights he'd dream he was riding to Cranford, intent on seeing Mary, only he'd lose his way, and wake up before he reached the gate of the house in Princess Street. The next morning he would be out of humor, and have trouble keeping his mind on his work all the day and evening long.

But worst of all was when he went to bed and dreamed that one of the little Smiths was in danger, and he'd been summoned to help.

On this night he dreamed he'd been called to assist Mrs. Smith during her confinement. Rachel was to be born, only the cord had gone round her neck, and Jack must come at once. Yet he had hurried not to Manchester but to the little church at Cranford, where Mrs. Sheehan met him at the gate. She was weeping and crying out, again and again, "She must be baptized. Is there no water? She _must_ be baptized."

At that Jack woke up and sat upright, with his entire body shuddering, and it was a long moment before he remembered what had happened.

Then he buried his head in his hands. There was nothing he might do for Rachel now, nothing at all.

* * *

"Laurie. Laurie. Please, wake up."

"Edward? _Edward_. Oh --"

"You must have been dreaming."

"Yes. Yes, I was."

"There now, my love, lie down again."

"Edward, might I -- could you --"

"Come here. Mmm. You are trembling, Laurie."

"Am I? I woke with such a start --"

"Shh, shh. Go back to sleep now."

"Mmm. It may be some time before I fall asleep again, Edward."

"Sleep will come. Think only on pleasant things."

"Pleasant things -- "

"Pleasant things, yes."

"I shall try. Edward -- "

"Hmm?"

"I -- nothing. Nothing."

"Rest now, my love."

* * *

Bridey had never seen such a sight -- not at home, nor in Liverpool, nor even in Manchester.

She must be a grand lady indeed, to be driven to the rectory in such a coach. The master himself took the girls about in his own little trap, and never had visitors who rode in anything finer than a gig. Nor did his eldest daughter and that husband of hers, Dr. Marshland's friend, have a carriage of their own.

Surely the rector had never welcomed a guest such as this one. The lady wore fine lace, grander than anything Bridey had ever seen, and at her throat there was a brooch with the head of a woman carved out of pure white stone, and black stone beneath that. It was beautiful to see, and so was the lady herself. Oh, she'd a dozen maids to look after all her jewelry and lace and dresses, and to arrange her hair; Bridey was sure of it.

Helen said their visitor was Lady Ludlow of Hanbury Court, a grand place she'd seen for herself. Why, she and Lizzie and Sophy and their papa had been there to walk on the green lawns, and see the fine gardens, and even dance in the great house itself last Twelfth Night.

Walter had been there too, God rest his soul. Helen told Bridey as much.

She did not ask Helen what business such a fine lady had coming to see her papa, but only watched as the master led Lady Ludlow to the finest room of the rectory, and shut the door fast, so that the sound of their voices could not be heard by either of the little girls, even if they put their ears to the keyhole.

* * *

"Reverend Hutton, I assure you that I have conducted this same discussion with Mr. Carter many a time."

"Indeed I do not doubt that, my lady," said the rector, with a little smile. "May I not hope that he has nearly convinced you of the benefit of teaching children their letters?"

"I do not quarrel with the notion that they ought to know their _prayers_," replied her ladyship. "And something of the Holy Scriptures as well. That is only as it should be.

"As for teaching the lower orders to read and write, that I cannot sanction. I have seen great evil come of such things, or rather I have not seen it myself, but heard report, which I had no reason to doubt."

"Evil?" Reverend Hutton frowned, and the lines in his brow deepened. "Of what manner of evil do you speak?"

"Betrayal, sir. Incitement to violence against the wholly innocent. I refer to the last century, Rector, and to the revolution in France. Perhaps you did not know that I had relations and friends in Paris among those who would not -- or could not -- flee, and did not survive."

"I am sorry, my lady."

"Shall I tell you their names?" she continued, as though the rector had not spoken at all. "Dear Clement," she said, so softly that Reverend Hutton inclined his head towards her to hear what she said. "His beloved Virginie. The Count de Crequy. And there were others, of course," she added, sighing deeply. She allowed for a little pause before continuing, in a stronger, firmer voice, "This is what comes of discontent, and I abhor it."

"My lady," said Reverend Hutton carefully. "You have seen men commit the most grievous sins with what has been entrusted to them, but may I say that the reverse is also true, that one may accomplish great good by employing a talent or a gift rightly. Indeed, are we not obliged to make wise use of whatever God has granted us?"

"I hope I have always done so, Rector."

"'For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.' I believe that is precisely Mr. Carter's thinking in founding the school."

"Mr. Carter's character is beyond reproach," said her ladyship. "And his intentions wholly kind."

"Then we are in agreement in that regard, at least. Now as to the school, and as to Harry Gregson --"

"I have accepted the former, and done what I might for the latter."

"Yes, I am aware that the lad remains in your employ."

"That is best, I think," continued Lady Ludlow. "He shall never know want."

"I do not doubt that." Reverend Hutton fell silent for a moment, then added, "My lady, you spoke just now of wrongs done to the innocent. I shudder to think of what you meant, and for all that you have suffered, I am sorry, truly sorry.

"But I must tell you in regard to Harry Gregson that I believe it should be very wrong to waste such abilities, such gifts as he has."

"He is the son of a poacher," said her ladyship simply. "Now reformed, I grant you, but a poacher nonetheless. "

"Yes, and Harry was once a ragged, unlettered boy, and you see what a change has been worked in him, with the promise of a good deal more. It should be very wrong to deny him his chance, and crush his spirit." The rector leaned forward, as though speaking confidentially. "Better to form the lad's character, my lady, with the help of those who have his welfare in mind, than to leave him to his own devices. You know how firm a hand a young boy needs."

The rector spoke the last sentence very softly, and Lady Ludlow could not but think of Urian, and of Walter Hutton. She frowned, and for a moment averted her eyes, then raised them to look into Reverend Hutton's face.

"I will endeavor to do what is right for this boy. But I shall need your assistance, Rector, as well as your counsel."

Reverend Hutton smiled. "You shall have both, my lady. But there is something more."

"Is there?"

"The boy's father, my lady. I have already spoken to him -- perhaps you did not know that -- and he is by no means persuaded that his son will fare better with an education than without."

"That does not astonish me, Rector. But Job Gregson too is in my employ, and perhaps within my influence as well. I will use such means as I have at my disposal."

"I am grateful, my lady, though may I say I hope you will do so with many prayers."

Lady Ludlow at last permitted herself a faint smile. "Of course, Rector. I should not dream of doing otherwise."

* * *

Surely it could not be so difficult to understand women.

He had spent a good deal of his life in their company, indeed had been married before. He had served Lady Ludlow a dozen years, and for all that he was candid with her, even blunt, he had also schooled himself to pay careful attention to her every expression and utterance, and knew better than to overlook so much as an arched eyebrow or sigh of displeasure.

His months with Laurie, in the office at Hanbury and, since their marriage, in their own home, had been an education as well, though of a different sort. She was mild and gentle, though of course she had will enough of her own, and a wit that might have silenced the queen's counsel. But Edward had begun to enjoy debating her, and even satisfied himself that he'd gained some skill in doing so. And he had seen her in every possible humor, or thought he had, and believed few surprises remained.

The previous night had been her birthday, and he had brought forth the gifts purchased in his recent travels. He understood very little of what ladies liked, save for flowers and books, but after purchasing a few volumes of prose and verse had wanted to find something for Laurie that she should never think to buy for herself from the household money. She kept very few trinkets -- when he looked down at her hand, he should see nothing but the gold wedding-ring he had placed there -- and cared little for the fussy mode of dress favored by many a lady in Cranford. He too preferred simplicity, but wanted as well to please her with something new, something beautiful. His first thought had been of a shawl, and his second of a delicate summer nightdress made of soft, fine cotton. The former was an ordinary, even dull thing, and the latter such an intimate concern that the very idea of purchasing it caused Edward's face to burn.

In the end he took refuge in a jewelry shop, intending to find his wife some adornment, though surely not of the sort her ladyship favored. The proprietor might well have made a fool of him, and taken a good deal of his money. Instead it seemed he was a married man himself, and a patient and benevolent sort, willing to direct his new client's attention to simple, graceful objects made of gleaming silver and colored stones. After some consideration Edward had chosen what he thought should best please Laurie, and the man had sent him off with many good wishes and reassurances.

Laurie had received each of the gifts exactly as Edward had hoped, turning her artist's eye upon a handsomely bound volume here, a delicate brooch there, and revealing her pleasure in her expression, and in the thanks she gave her husband.

They passed their time at supper and afterwards very happily. He remembered teasing her, and laughing with her, and telling her how pretty she looked. He was not given to compliments, and she'd blushed at his words -- he could see it even by candlelight -- but then she'd smiled at him, and teased him in return.

* * *

_"Should you not have liked a birthday dinner?"_

_"We have had supper and now presents, Edward. I should have thought that the very definition of a birthday dinner."_

_"I meant with guests."'_

_"Apart from you?"_

_"Yes, apart from me."_

_"Such celebrations can be very merry, but I think just now it is better that we two have dined alone. In fact I prefer it so."_

_"Do you?"_

_"Oh, yes. Do not you?"_

_"Mmm. I believe I do."  
_

* * *

But what was he to make of this evening?

When he asked what was amiss, she would only admit to being weary. Indeed she was in great haste to retire, and was curled up and very nearly asleep before he even came to bed. He thought he knew her well enough to recognize when she was avoiding him, and tonight she had kept her distance. It wounded his feelings, and more so because he could think of no quarrel between them, and seen no passionate anger on her part. She had been kind to him, even deferential, and had seemed rather melancholy, but that had been all.

There was no accounting for it, especially given her behavior of the previous night. He could still feel her hand brushing against his brow, see her large dark eyes looking up at him, hear her murmuring in his ear. He so loved to hear her voice. He had always loved her voice.

Now she was silent, and a short but very decided distance from him.

"Are you awake, Laurie?" he asked softly, and received no response.

Well, perhaps her mood would be altered on the morrow, after a good night's sleep. Now he too must rest, for there should be a great deal to do the following day.

To his left he heard Laurie sniff, as though she had caught cold. He waited a moment and, on hearing no further sound, thought he must surely have imagined it.

* * *

She had imagined it. She had imagined it all. How could she have been so mistaken?

She made her discovery the morning after her birthday and, in a terrible instant of loneliness and shock, felt as though her heart had ceased to beat. Then the cold, relentless truth had come upon her: She had misread the signs.

She had believed herself to be carrying Edward's child, and had come dangerously near to revealing as much to him, indeed had almost done so the previous night, when they had been so happy.

There had been a moment when she had reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his brow, and he'd suddenly seemed shy and boyish, just as he had done the very first time he'd visited her. Then all at once he was confident again, indeed masterful, and made her blush, made her laugh, made her sigh, until sighs and blushes and laughter all melded together, and she could hear him murmuring in her ear in a voice that was rough and tender at once. In his arms she had grown comfortably drowsy at the last, and during a final few minutes of wakefulness she had begun to wonder if their child might have eyes exactly like his own.

But during the night the terrifying dream had come to her again, and she slept too long in the morning, and awoke, still unsettled, to see that Edward had already left their bed. There had been no opportunity to speak to him, not just then.

After that had come despair.

* * *

Perhaps it was God's mercy that she had _not_ told him, for now she would have had to break his heart, and the very thought brought tears to her eyes. He had borne a great many disappointments, and perhaps she had spared him one more.

Yet there was no one at present to whom she might reveal her own sorrow. Weariness and low spirits kept her from walking to the village, where she might have at least seen Isobel Morgan, who alone had known her secret.

At least she believed only Isobel had known. If Mrs. Greenfield noticed or suspected anything, she had said not a word about it. Even so, Laurie did not wish to risk revealing what was amiss, and consequently kept mainly to the solitude of the garden, or of the bedroom, where she might have the luxury of weeping.

By the day's end the tears had begun to do their work, and she was able to master her spirits, and to some degree her grief, though evidently not enough to avoid some necessary awkwardness with Edward, who as the evening went on frowned to himself, as though persuaded something was wrong. She thought to offer him some tender reassurance but for once could summon no words.

So she had instead employed the ready excuse of weariness, and retired early, willing herself into drowsiness. Still he had murmured something as he came to bed, though she had made no reply, and feigned sleep. It felt very wrong, but she could think of no other way to spare Edward what would of necessity be a painful discussion.

* * *

The following day she awoke without memory of dreams, and with fresh resolve to conquer her despair. Though she still felt a touch unwell, she decided to walk to the village, and to call first upon Mrs. Morgan, then Miss Matty. Isobel should be all sympathy, and Miss Matty all kindness, and she might confide in the one, and receive news of Miss Smith from the other.

Afterwards she would stop at the butcher's shop, where kindly Mr. Goddard always made pleasant conversation, and Mr. Beckett seemed to enjoy being of service, and indeed had accustomed himself to her ritual of ordering her husband's dinner.

Moreover at this time any task, no matter how ordinary, that she performed out of love for Edward should relieve some of her sorrow, and allow the illusion that everything went on as before.

* * *

Martha caught herself almost in time.

"Miss Galindo -- Mrs. Carter," she announced, adding, "Mrs. Carter,_ madam_." But of course Miss Matty would never remind her to say "madam." It had been Miss Deborah Jenkyns who did that, and she'd have been cross at Martha for calling Mrs. Carter by the wrong name too! But Miss Jenkyns had gone to her rest almost two years ago now, and Miss Matty didn't scold unless it was something very bad.

She was smiling now, as though Martha had said everything just right, and Mrs. Carter was smiling too, and showing her dimples. Martha thought she looked just the same as she did when she was making ladies' caps, for all that she had new ribbons on her bonnet and a new brooch pinned right at her collar. It was a lovely brooch, all made of silver, with stones just the color of her dress, and nicer than anything Miss Pole or Miss Tomkinson wore.

Of course even Martha had heard the gossip about Miss Galindo, or Mrs. Carter, as she was now, but she knew it couldn't be true. That Mr. Carter was a good man, and wouldn't wed Miss Galindo if she couldn't make him a proper wife. Besides, Miss Matty wouldn't have her in the sitting-room, would she, if Mrs. Carter wasn't respectable enough to be received.

And Martha liked hearing Mrs. Carter talk. She sounded very clever, but was kind too, and didn't give herself airs. Maybe she was like Dr. Marshland, who always had a funny story to tell or a kind word to say, but had gone away to do something important in Scotland, or some such place.

Any road, it was nice to have callers like Mrs. Carter, now that they didn't have Miss Smith or Dr. Marshland about.

* * *

"Will you be wanting more biscuits and tea, Miss Matty?"

To Martha's surprise, her mistress seemed cross at the question. As for Mrs. Carter, she sat very still, and was looking down at the teacup in her hands, as though trying to find something in it.

"Go back to the kitchen, please, Martha," said Miss Matty, with unexpected sternness.

"Yes, madam," answered Martha, confused. As she left the sitting-room and shut the door behind her, she could hear Miss Matty speaking softly to her guest.

"I did not mean to grieve you, Mrs. Carter. My only thought was to tell you what a service you have performed for Mrs. Smith. Indeed it must be a tremendous comfort to her to have a picture of the child she lost."

* * *

Mrs. Trafford had not accustomed herself to the transformation in her brother's household, or in his wife.

At this season of the year, Clara ought to have been wearing a gown in a lively shade of green, or perhaps lavender and white, with a great many flounces. Ordinarily Mrs. Trafford found such displays excessive, even vulgar. But the sight of her sister-in-law in chaste, severe black, with no adornment at all to her dress, was enough to make her long for the days of shamelessly elaborate attire, and of a topsy-turvy household -- a household with six little children in it.

Worse still was seeing Mary going about in black as well, at a time when she ought to have been seeing to her trousseau, and wearing the contented if wary expression of a bride-to-be.

Yet mourning had not vanquished Mary entirely; indeed her aunt thought it likely that it had refined her character. For the most part Mary had shown a laudable resistance to peevishness, though surely the constant society of her stepmother must be a trial to her nerves. The girl had also displayed excellent good sense, and no small degree of patience, given the demands of the children. Of course Abigail, who was in a fair way to turn into a little old woman, caused never a moment's trouble, but her little brothers had grown restless, and kept their nurse, Mama, and sister as busy as heretofore.

In fact at times it seemed that Mary should become careworn, and lose her bloom, but for that there was surely a remedy.

* * *

"I will not be coy with you, Clara," said Mrs. Trafford, looking across at the young Mrs. Smith. "Pray do not frown in that manner; I am not about to deliver a lecture.

"Now then, you know that it is by no means always true that relations enjoy each other's society. Indeed one has very little choice in the matter. But I will tell you that I am fond of Mary, and have always enjoyed her company.

"I would tell a lie, though, if I said I did not worry about her spirits, at least at present."

"We are all of us downhearted at present," said Clara simply.

"Forgive me. I intended no coldness, nor I am unmindful of what you have endured. But at least you have a husband at your side to comfort you."

"Yes." Clara kept her eyes on her hands, resting primly in her lap, and absently stroked her wedding-ring with her thumb.

"Now I know that Mary's young man has his obligations, and I dare say she knows her duty to you and to her father. But it is a very harsh thing to separate two young people promised to each other. That is not to say it does them any harm to face a little trial," she added, when Clara at last looked up. "Indeed there will no doubt come a time when they will be glad of this lesson in forbearance. But they are young, and only just engaged, and it is a poor idea to keep them apart for _very_ long.

"I mean to go up to London shortly, and I should like Mary to accompany me. Do not worry about the expense," she added, when Clara opened her mouth to speak. "My cousin will make us both welcome, indeed will be delighted to have Mary as a guest. As for myself, it is a great comfort to have a congenial traveling-companion, and the journey itself ought to prove something of a tonic to Mary. I need not say why. Besides, it is only fitting that she see something of the world before taking on the obligations of a wife."

"I have no doubt that you will look after her well," began young Mrs. Smith.

"Upon my word! Do not tell me you are worried about propriety," said her sister-in-law, with a very decided frown. "There are few things as respectable, or as fearsome, as a dowager aunt."

Clara smiled demurely. "I have no concerns in that regard," she said. "Though it is possible her father will raise objections."

"I shall make short work of those; you may rely upon it -- "

At that moment the door of the sitting-room opened, and Mary appeared. The harsh color of her gown, though unflattering to such a fair woman, could take away nothing of the quiet beauty of her face, or of the rosy blush on her skin. _Upon my word,_ thought her aunt,_ she looks remarkably like her mother_.

Before Mary could offer her aunt any greeting, or the lady herself reveal the new scheme, Clara took matters into her own hands. "Come here, Mary, and sit by me," she said, patting the sofa, and smiling up at her stepdaughter. "We have such things to discuss!"

* * *

"Now then, Mrs. Carter, what shall it be this fine day?" asked Mr. Goddard, beaming down at Laurentia. For a moment she stood staring up at his plump, kindly face, and then started, quite as though she had awakened from a dream. Surely she could not be that tired --

"Mrs. Carter, are you well?" She was conscious of Mr. Beckett at her elbow, and heard the concern in his voice.

"I am just a little faint; that is all," answered Laurentia. But it was _not_ all; she was very dizzy indeed, and a moment later felt a pain, a good deal stronger than what had come upon her earlier, after she had left Miss Matty's doorstep.

"I -- Mr. Beckett, I think I -- "

She was aware that her right hand was flailing about helplessly, reaching for a counter, an arm, anything that might support her.

"Oh, dear God, sir," she heard Mr. Beckett say, and then, once again, "Mrs. Carter --"

"Catch her. She's falling," said another voice.

Laurentia felt herself lifted in someone's arms and conveyed through one door, then another. She shuddered as though with cold, for all that it was a warm July day, and felt as though she were spinning round. And indeed she _was_ moving still, or rather being carried, and caught a glimpse of a lady in a cap, and another in Scotch plaid dress, and heard the murmuring of voices as she was taken she knew not where.

* * *

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester, it is dreadfully warm today," said Miss Pole, holding to the brim of her bonnet, and squinting at the dusty street before her.

"You must keep to the shade, as I do," said her companion. "Draw nearer to the shops, Miss Pole, and you'll not have to struggle to see in this sun."

"Yes. Well, one does not like to seem to be peering into every window one passes. It is most unseemly.

"On a day such as this, Mrs. Forrester, I should very much like to have a parasol. Do you think Mr. Johnson would order such a thing?"

"Oh, it should be a great pity to take the trouble of bringing a parasol all the way from Manchester," said Mrs. Forrester, cackling, "when one has so little need of it. We've more rain than sunshine to think of, I should say.

"Now just round this corner, Miss Pole, and we'll be out of the sun."

But as they rounded that very corner a man appeared, so agitated and so intent on reaching his destination, whatever that might be, that he fairly flew into Miss Pole, and should have knocked her to the ground, had he not taken her by the shoulders and spun her round, that he might pass without doing her any mischief.

"Oh! What do you mean by such a thing! Stop! Stop!" But the young man only shouted his apologies back at the two ladies and continued to run.

"Good heavens! Miss Pole, are you hurt? Oh! He gave me such a fright!" said Mrs. Forrester, taking her friend's arm.

Miss Pole took a moment to catch her breath and compose herself enough to direct a final glare at the retreating figure of the man. "I am quite well, Mrs. Forrester," she said, drawing another deep, angry breath. "No thanks to that young man. I do not think I have ever seen such a thing."

"Oh, I am certain he meant no harm." Mrs. Forrester gave a little chuckle. "He turned you about as though in a dance!"

"I do not find it in the least amusing," said her friend, "that one might be trampled underfoot while walking in the High Street."

"That was that nice Mr. Beckett from Mr. Goddard's shop," said Mrs. Forrester. "I thought I knew him. Oh, he's ever so pleasant when I go in to fetch a bit of mutton, and some scraps for Puss.

"Why was he running, do you think?"

* * *

_To be continued..._


	37. The History of a Love

The following is based on characters from the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow** for the small screen. I of course have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and take many liberties with the canon. Characterizations owe a great deal to the actors' portrayals, as well as to Ms. Thomas's script.

Many, many thanks to my faithful and kind readers for your reviews and encouragement. This chapter was difficult, even painful to write but provides answers to some of the questions you were posing last time out, as well as a few surprises for the particularly observant. You all know who you are...

* * *

_"A relationship of love is not formed by a momentary act but in the life that surrounds it." Martin C. Helldorfer_

* * *

**Chapter 37: The History of a Love**

A child. Laurentia had not expected to open her eyes and see a child, a tiny girl, with dark curls and a broad, rosy face. But a child was standing there, her dimpled chin and plump little hands resting upon the edge of the bed -- for Laurie _was_ lying upon a bed, though she could not recall just where it was, or who had brought her there.

"Mrs. Carter." A soft voice came from somewhere above her, and she looked up to see Caroline Tomkinson -- or rather Caroline Goddard, for she had married the butcher the previous year.

"Do not worry, Mrs. Carter," she said. "My husband has sent for Dr. Harrison."

"Mrs. Goddard." Laurie tried to sit up, wincing as she did so. "I must beg your pardon --"

"Why, my dear Mrs. Carter," began another voice. Laurie's gaze was drawn to the foot of the bed, where Miss Tomkinson stood, in the company of yet another child, a little boy who was fairly peering around her skirts. "You need make no apology. But you must not stir from where you are," she added crisply, if not unkindly.

"Dr. Harrison will be here directly," said her sister. "Augusta and I will attend you in the meantime. Is there anything we might bring you -- some tea, perhaps?"

"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Goddard," said Laurie, astonished to discover that she was exhausted, and that speaking itself required remarkable effort. "I do not think there is -- that is, only my husband -- I should like someone to send word to my husband --"

"We shall do so presently, Mrs. Carter," said Mrs. Goddard. "As soon as Mr. Beckett returns with the doctor."

"The doctor," Laurentia repeated. "I own I do not know what has happened --"

"Why, it would appear you fainted, Mrs. Carter," said Miss Tomkinson. "I dare say my brother-in-law and Mr. Beckett were very worried on your behalf, and brought you here with the greatest haste. But you must rest now, and I shall go see if Dr. Harrison has yet arrived.

"Come away, Beth," she added, leaning down to put a hand on the little girl's shoulder, and doing the same with the boy. "And you as well, Philip."

"Are you certain there is nothing I can bring you, Mrs. Carter?" said Caroline Goddard pleasantly, once her sister had led the twins out of the room.

Laurentia made an effort to smile. "Thank you. I believe I --"

Before she could say anything more, another pain began, and she could manage neither words nor tears, indeed nothing beyond drawing each deep, deliberate breath. But in her pain she felt Caroline Goddard lay a hand upon her shoulder, and heard her speaking in a soft, unmistakably anxious voice.

* * *

Dr. Harrison's examination was mercifully discreet, as well as brief.

Of course Caroline remained present, for propriety's sake, and consequently was privy to his questioning of Mrs. Carter, which seemed to last an eternity. Indeed it pained Caroline to hear Dr. Harrison go on, and to see the expression on Mrs. Carter's face as she made her replies. Such an interview should rob a woman of her every secret, however intimate or tender.

And of her every hope.

"You had taken note of the signs, then," said Dr. Harrison at last, in that kind way he had, when the truth of Mrs. Carter's plight was evident.

For a long, wretched moment his patient was unable to answer him, but her reply, when it came, was enough to wring Caroline's heart. "I had believed I might be with child." The last word was spoken so softly! "But then it appeared that I had only misjudged --"

Dr. Harrison nodded sympathetically. "That is common in the first weeks, and of course very little time had passed since conception, though that is perhaps fortunate."

"Fortunate? _Fortunate_?" Even to her own ears, Caroline's voice sounded sharp, but she could not keep silent at such an observation.

"Forgive me," said Dr. Harrison swiftly, and with evident sincerity. "I only meant, Mrs. Carter, that had your condition been more advanced, there ought to have been greater danger to yourself."

Caroline could see that this news was of no comfort whatever to Mrs. Carter, who, though she forbore to weep, cast her eyes downward, and nodded at Dr. Harrison's words, indeed continued nodding for a moment, as though that were the only response that remained to her.

* * *

_Please your ladyship, Mrs. Carter has been taken ill, and is calling for her husband, and he's not to be found. Please your ladyship, he must go to Mr. Goddard's directly.  
_

She had ordered the carriage in the same moment that she had sent for Mr. Carter himself. There should be barely time enough to give him reason for her haste, but she would not forgive herself any unnecessary delay, nor, she suspected, might Mr. Carter.

_Please your ladyship, Mrs. Carter has been taken ill._

She prayed that her apprehensions were unwarranted, that there should be no cause for worry, but all her experience told her otherwise. From girlhood Laurentia had enjoyed abundant health, and if she had suddenly been taken ill, there were one or two likely reasons for it, though of course Lady Ludlow could not say which of those it might be. Laurentia had by no means revealed such intimate confidences, but she _was_ newly married, and it was by no means unreasonable to expect --

Newly married. Newly married, and to Mr. Carter. God grant that that good man should have no cause for grief!

With that prayer barely past her lips, Lady Ludlow stepped briskly towards the door, and to where the carriage should be waiting, and saw that her steward had answered her summons with alacrity.

"Mr. Carter -- "

"My lady."

She did not merely sweep past as he paid his respects but rather stopped before him and said, gently but clearly, "Laurentia has sent word that she wishes you to come to her at once. I fear she has been taken ill, Mr. Carter."

"_Ill?_" In times past Lady Ludlow had looked into his eyes and seen anger, sorrow, even fear on one occasion, but there had been nothing to equal the feeling they displayed in this moment. "Ill?" he repeated, almost regaining his composure. "Is she at home?"

"She is in the village, Mr. Carter. At the home of Mr. Goddard."

"Mr. Goddard? With your leave, my lady, I shall go to her at once."

"By all means, Mr. Carter.

"I should like to accompany you," she added softly. "If you have no objection."

"Of course." And without so much as another word between them, she entered the waiting carriage. He followed quickly after, to ride in silence with her, and perhaps his own anxious prayers, as they made their way to Cranford.

* * *

Mr. Goddard himself admitted them to the house, which seemed filled with people. There was Augusta Tomkinson, a child on either side of her, standing sentinel as Lady Ludlow and Edward came through the hallway. Miss Tomkinson curtsied as they passed, while the little boy and girl merely stared up at the both of them.

Inside one of the bedchambers Mrs. Goddard and Dr. Harrison were attending Laurie, who, to Edward's great relief, was awake and alert -- pale, but evidently otherwise unaltered. She turned her large, sad eyes to him as he entered the room, and he went to her and took her hand for barely a moment before a flurry of activity commenced, with Mrs. Goddard arranging another chair by the bed, and Dr. Harrison appearing at Edward's shoulder to beg a word in private, and Lady Ludlow saying quietly, "I shall wait with Laurentia, Mr. Carter, while you speak with Dr. Harrison."

Given the presence of relatives and children and all others, it seemed unlikely that Dr. Harrison might find any safe place for a conferral, but Mr. Goddard, who had kept a discreet few steps behind Edward and her ladyship, proved most resourceful, and in a trice installed both physician and estate manager in an otherwise unoccupied room.

When at last the door was shut behind them, Dr. Harrison, after a second's awkwardness, provided an account of Laurie's condition, or rather former condition. In that moment it was difficult to think clearly, even to feel anything, but later Edward should remember the conversation with a degree of respect for this young man, who, for all his rigorous pursuit of medical knowledge and skill, had by no means put off simple decency.

"I am sorry, Mr. Carter. It grieves me to give such news to you, and to your good wife."

"Yes." Edward studied the floor for a moment, and said quietly, "It was only for a brief time, then."

Dr. Harrison appeared to understand what he meant. "Yes. But a few weeks."

"Is it your recommendation that Mrs. Carter take argot?"

"Argot?" repeated Dr. Harrison, at first unable to conceal his astonishment, then recovering. "I see that you are not unfamiliar with the course of treatment following a miscarriage."

"No, I am not. My first wife suffered in the same fashion, and more than once."

"I am truly sorry, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Harrison. There was another awkward pause before he continued. "I think I might say, however, that Mrs. Carter will make a full recovery. She is strong and healthy --"

"But for this." Edward cursed himself for being unable to hold his tongue, and yet the words had come.

Dr. Harrison again seemed discomfited, but continued, quietly yet firmly. "Any woman, no matter how robust, may suffer a miscarriage, Mr. Carter. Indeed if it happens so soon after conception, as it has in this case, we may know that surely things would not have proceeded as they ought, no matter how much care your wife took. I realize that affords you little comfort, but it is nonetheless true."

Edward again looked at the floor, then raised his eyes to the young physician's face. "Thank you for speaking so plainly."

"I do not believe your wife to be in any danger, Mr. Carter," went on Dr. Harrison. "Though she of course may have some further pain. I can provide her a remedy for that, and something to help her sleep. Of course we shall also have to observe her for any signs of fever or infection."

"Of course," said Edward softly.

"I am sorry, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Harrison again. "Most truly sorry."

* * *

Mrs. Goddard, for all that she was in her own home, seemed overtaken by shyness at the presence of Lady Ludlow. As soon as she had placed a chair beside the bed, and seen her ladyship comfortably settled, she excused herself, though not before offering a final word of courtesy and reassurance.

"I shall be outside the door, if there is anything you need." With that Mrs. Goddard made a curtsy, and glided out of the room.

Lady Ludlow nodded as their hostess departed, and then turned to Laurentia. There was no question she dared ask, no word she might offer, and so she simply took the younger woman's hand and clasped it with her own.

At that Laurentia shut her eyes tightly, perhaps against some unacknowledged pain, and pressed her lips together, as though she could not bear to speak.

"My dear." Lady Ludlow summoned as much tenderness, and comfort, as she might in that one utterance, and still Laurentia began to weep, the tears flowing down her lovely oval face as they had years before, as they had each time someone she loved had been taken from her.

* * *

It may well have been only a few minutes that they sat thus -- Lady Ludlow could not say with certainty just how long it was -- but ever after she would be haunted by the sad beauty of Laurentia's eyes, and by the first words she uttered when she could speak again.

_I have lost Edward's child._

Truly she need not have said anything more, yet Lady Ludlow let her talk. Laurentia had always been forthright, if diplomatic, with her friend and benefactress, but never had she spoken so frankly.

And never had she revealed such secrets. Indeed Lady Ludlow was keenly aware that she was now privy to what Mr. Carter ought rightly to have heard himself, and yet she could fault Laurentia neither for her inexperience nor her modesty. If she had kept silent about her condition, it had been with the expectation of revealing all to her husband, and ensuring his happiness. She could not have known that fate, and her own flesh, would force her hand.

In truth she spoke no more than a moment or two, and yet the very lifetime of a woman was encompassed in her words.

It was always thus, thought Lady Ludlow. There should first be doubt, then the glow of hope, and afterwards despair, and self-reproach. With a few weeks, perhaps months, the body should heal, but a good deal of time, indeed the passage of years, might not prove sufficient to restore a damaged soul.

This Lady Ludlow knew well but dared not mention as she clasped Laurentia's hand, and spoke such words of comfort as were hers to give.

* * *

"I see there's been some commotion up at Mr. Goddard's."

"Commotion?" said Miss Matty, pausing as she unfastened her purse.

"Someone's been taken ill," said Mrs. Johnson, looking back across the counter with her accustomed unblinking gaze.

"Taken ill?" said her client, duly shocked by the information and the tone in which Mrs. Johnson had delivered it. "I had not heard that anyone among our neighbors was unwell. I do hope it is nothing serious."

"I couldn't say, Miss Jenkyns, but it must have been all sudden-like. Mr. Goddard sent that Irishman for the doctor."

"Irishman?" echoed Miss Matty, wondering if Dr. Marshland had reappeared without notice, and if so, why he might not have done for any of Mr. Goddard's customers, or for his family.

"Saw him myself as he ran by. Still wearing his apron, he was."

"You mean Mr. Beckett, I suppose," said Miss Matty primly. "The young man Mr. Goddard hired to make deliveries, and cast accounts."

"And to fetch the doctor and all. It was Dr. Harrison this time. I expect he was the nearest."

"Perhaps he _was_ the nearest, Mrs. Johnson," replied Miss Matty. "Though surely that is no slight upon his abilities. Dr. Harrison has always proven most reliable, young though he is. My sister formed a most favorable opinion of him."

"He must have been called to attend someone important," continued Mrs. Johnson, as though Miss Matty had said nothing at all. "I saw her ladyship's carriage going the same way not long after, and return again. It must have been fetching an invalid back; the coachman kept the horses well in check.

"That'll be four and three, Miss Jenkyns, unless there's something else you need."

"Why, no," said Miss Matty. "No, thank you. I have quite done here."

* * *

Edward looked at the clock above the bedroom fireplace. Half past nine.

It had been some hours since they had brought Laurie home, and helped her to bed. It had fairly pierced his soul to see her made to lay off the dress she wore to pay calls, and put on her nightgown. She looked slight and vulnerable, and so grieved, that Edward wished he might be left alone with her for a moment, and gather her in his arms, that she might weep whatever tears yet remained.

But there had been a good deal to do, and nearly as many people present as in the Goddard household. Of course her ladyship withdrew, once she had satisfied herself that Laurentia was in capable hands. But then must the housekeeper go upstairs and down, fetching this and that for her mistress, and the doctor must explain the proper use of the medicine, and his intention to return early the next morning to see how his patient fared.

At last they had seen Laurie safely to bed, where she'd fallen into a deep sleep. It was then that there had been silence within the household, not the rich contentment of previous evenings, but a hollow, fearful stillness in which Edward must watch and wait. After some persuading he'd taken supper, a very lonely one, but he was soon upstairs again. If he might not speak to Laurie, he ought at least to be in the same room as she was, and watch over her as she slept.

She had not stirred since closing her eyes, but perhaps she would wake up in the night, and need him. He could not therefore think of extinguishing the candle, or even of preparing for bed himself. There was nothing left for him to do but to remain awake, and watch, and do battle with whatever dark thoughts preyed upon him.

* * *

She had not told him.

His sweet wife had not thought to confide in him, had not said a word about her condition. He ought not to have held that against her, yet it unsettled him to think the whole of the village might know what had happened almost before he did, and know what he had lost -- what _they_ had lost.

Why had she not spoken to him?

He might have taken a perverse comfort had he believed she did not known the signs, but he'd be a fool to think any such thing. They were newly married, it was true, but Laurie's curiosity and lively mind ought to have drawn her to learn what she might expect, and to apply to Mrs. Morgan, the physician's wife, for information and advice.

Perhaps she had been afraid to tell him, then, and if so, why? All at once he had an uncomfortable recollection of their discussions in his office after she had come to Hanbury to stay as the guest of her ladyship, and he cursed himself for hinting at past disappointments, and nearly discouraging talk of children altogether.

And there was other damning evidence; he had best bring it forward at once and have done with it.

Well, then. In recent months he'd been almost wholly consumed with the estate, and with the school, and of course with his efforts for Harry, who had seemed so much a son to him that it had scarcely occurred to Edward to think of any other. Laurie had been his helpmate in all things, of course, but had he even spared a thought for her?

No, that was unfair, deeply unfair. He had not taken Laurie away on a honeymoon trip, it was true, but neither had he forgotten Lady Ludlow's counsel before the wedding, and his own vows.

_My lady, I promise you that in everything I will be as mindful of her happiness as her welfare._

And could anyone see Laurie and doubt her happiness? If she had felt herself ill-used or cast aside, she'd certainly given no sign of it. If anything, she had seemed to be flourishing -- confident among the other ladies, patient and motherly with Harry, gracious to friend and acquaintance, and above all warm and tender towards Edward himself.

No, he and Laurie had been very nearly of one mind and heart. They trusted each other, and had done so ever since she had offered to assist with Harry's education.

But surely that was wrong; he must date their bond from the moment she had come back to him at the surgery, and stood by his side, faithfully recording his last will and testament, and gently curling her hand about his own --

No, that too was wrong. Their friendship had begun the day her ladyship had discovered Harry working alongside them in the office, and been deeply angry. Laurie had tried to intervene, when she might have remained silent, and ought to have been mindful of the debt she owed Lady Ludlow.

Miss Galindo, her ladyship's milliner, allying herself with Harry Gregson, the poacher's son! In that moment Edward had been forced to acknowledge that her worth consisted neither of caps nor bonnets, nor even of a dimpled smile and a ready wit.

* * *

Eleven o'clock.

Edward closed the cover of the novel he had been attempting to read for the last hour. His mind would not attend to it, nor would his eyes note what was written upon the page. Weariness, and the hour of the night, had done him no small degree of mischief.

Perhaps too his choice of reading had been in error. After supper he had seen to it that the bedchamber was well supplied with volumes of prose and verse, to please and amuse Laurie during her days of convalescence. Out of loneliness, curiosity, and a simple desire to keep himself awake, he'd taken up one of the novels he'd bought her in Manchester.

It was a work by Miss Austen, for whose wit Laurie had nothing but the highest praise.

Edward had made his best effort, truly he had, but was forced to acknowledge himself not in the least diverted by Miss Austen's novel. In fact he was greatly dispirited after reading several pages, and contemplating the unlucky, indeed tragic history of a family, and the consequences of vanity, profligacy, and all manner of imprudent behavior. Perhaps it should improve if Laurie were to read it aloud to him. In any event, he had intended it for her pleasure, and not as his only company as he kept vigil at her bedside.

When the words on the page at length seemed little more than a jumble to him, he closed the book and looked for something, anything, to keep him awake.

He had sat too long in one of his old wooden chairs. It should be better to stand up and move about a bit, then settle into Laurie's easy chair, which had been placed beside the bed.

He picked up the candle, and as he moved across the bedroom floor he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror. The play of light and shadow seemed to reveal every crease on his brow, every scar remaining after the accident, and a curious expression in his eyes -- cool and steady, yet vaguely displeased, almost accusatory. Dear God, he must have appeared fierce indeed to the young Harry Gregson, and even to a certain Miss Galindo, at one time.

He quietly stepped over to the bureau and set the candle down. There was something lying there, an object gleaming in the light -- a little brooch he had given to Laurie for her birthday. She had worn it this day as she was paying calls, and evidently no one had thought to put it away. Best to do so now; it should be some days before she would wear it again.

Laurie's little trinket box was on the bureau as well, and he opened the lid. To his astonishment there were no signs of jewelry within, only papers with some dried flowers atop them.

Dried flowers?

Violets.

Without thinking he drew the candle closer to the treasure box and gently lifted the pressed flowers out. He took up one of the papers, unfolded it, and saw his own handwriting. It was the note he'd sent to Laurie on their wedding day, and he could almost smile at the memory of Captain Brown warning him against any delay, and Harry loyally offering to serve as messenger.

He refolded the note and took up the next letter, again in his own hand. It had been written in haste before his departure to Manchester, and spent nearly a day lying about the floor of the flower shop before it was rescued and taken to Laurie, and here it was in her treasure box.

There was another note, of course, the one he had sent along with the little book of verse at Christmas. How he had troubled himself over every word within that message! But here it was still, among Laurie's things.

He gently replaced all the letters and left the violets atop them, and closed the cover of the box.

The brooch might remain where it was, until Laurie took it up again. God knew when that might be.

* * *

The entire floor seemed to creak unpleasantly beneath his every step, no matter how softly he he trod. It ought surely to have awakened his wife, yet she did not stir.

He paused a moment to look down at her. She did not even look like his Laurie; she was so pale and still, and stretched out on her back, when she usually curled up on her side. Since their marriage he had often taken pleasure in watching her sleep, and but tonight doing so only deepened his loneliness.

Edward lowered himself into the easy chair. Here he might keep watch, and know at once if she needed him.

He longed to touch her, even if only to place a hand upon her forehead and learn if she was feverish, but even then he might disturb her sleep. He knew then that he _wanted_ to wake her, that he should have given anything for her voice to break the silence, for it seemed just then as though that silence, and perhaps the night itself, would never end.

* * *

The light in the room was as yet too dim to allow Laurentia to read the face of the clock. All was utterly still, and ordinarily she ought to have curled up and returned to sleep. This morning, however, her usual contented drowsiness had been replaced by the suggestion of weakness, pain, and emptiness, and an unsettling recollection of the previous day. It had been a a dreadful hour or two that she had spent in that sunny room at the Goddards' house in the village.

She was at home now, at least, in her own bed, the bed she shared with Edward, but he was by no means in his accustomed place.

It took her a moment to discover him dozing quietly in the easy chair at her side of the bed. Dear Edward! Every last button on his coat was still fastened, and his neckcloth tied. He'd not so much as removed his top boots. Thus had he spent the night.

He looked somehow troubled as he slept, with that little crease visible between his brows, and his lips set in a pout, yet also curiously endearing.

She might well have reached out to stroke his forehead or clasp his hand, indeed longed to do so. But she must not wake him. If he had been sitting almost bolt upright in that chair throughout the watches of the night, and for her sake, he had more than earned his rest.

And perhaps he would not welcome her touch, not in this moment. First there was a great deal she ought to say to him.

Laurie had an uncomfortable memory of what seemed a great many people about her bed, and the tremendous to-do made on her behalf, and how amid it Edward had been grave and quiet. How strange it was that she had had occasion to speak to Lady Ludlow, and not to Edward. But there had been no opportunity, and perhaps no words.

Her eyes still on Edward, she curled up again, meaning to rest until he at last awoke. Perhaps then she should find the words to speak to him.

* * *

The light had changed again in the room.

Edward was no longer in the chair beside the bed, and for a moment she felt confusion, as well as loneliness, until she saw that he had only gone to the mirror across the room and was at that moment tying a fresh neckcloth. If he had been making ready as she slept, he had certainly been very quiet about it.

"Edward."

He turned round. "I am sorry. I did not wish to wake you."

"Indeed you did not," she said, slowly raising herself up from the pillows. "I awoke earlier, when you were still asleep."

He had moved swiftly to the bed and without another word placed his hand on her forehead, virtually covering it, then felt her cheek, chin and throat. His hand was so comforting, so familiar.

"Edward --"

"Hmm. You are a bit warm, but I do not think there is a fever." He grasped her hand in both of his, then felt her wrist.

"Edward --"

"Are you in any pain?" He frowned as he studied her face; indeed he looked very much the Mr. Carter she had known two years before, for all that he was behaving exactly as though he were her physician.

"_Edward_." She reached for his other hand, and he paused in his examination and glanced down at their joined hands. Somewhat awkwardly he eased himself onto the edge of the bed, and she felt the familiar shifting of the mattress beneath his weight.

"I almost told you."

Edward said nothing, but took hold of both her hands and raised them to his lips.

"I tried to -- more than once." She said it so softly that she was at first unsure whether he heard.

He _had_ heard, though, and still held her hands in his, stroking them gently.

"But then I thought I had been mistaken."

"I know."

At last she looked up at him, but could not see him clearly, not when her eyes were so --

"I had thought to -- I had thought nothing could be more precious than to give you --"

"Shh, shh." He shifted closer, putting his arms around her and drawing her to his chest.

"I am sorry, Edward," she said, her face pressed against his coat. "I am sorry."

"Shh, shh." He had her head against his shoulder and was stroking her hair. "Shh."

When he spoke again, she could feel as well as hear his voice rising from within his body.

"No one could be so dear to me as you. "

* * *

The step beneath her foot had not creaked, thank the Lord, nor had she so much as revealed her presence by a cough. It should have been very wrong to do so at such a time, when the mistress was so grieved, and the master taken up with comforting her. No, it was better to steal downstairs again, and find some work for her hands to do for another quarter of an hour, until the mistress's tears had stopped.

For Mrs. Carter's sake she hoped that Dr. Harrison should not return too early. Oh, he'd no doubt have some new tonic or pill to take, but there would be nothing among all his fine medicines to cure grief. A man of his age could not know how sorely a woman's heart ached at such a time.

It would be wiser to leave Mr. Carter to see to his wife. Folk often thought him stern and cold, but a great many folk were such fools, and would not know a fine man when he was before their very eyes. He was as good a master as anyone might wish, as faithful a servant as her ladyship had in her employ, and of course kindness itself to that Gregson boy.

And it was plain he'd made a good husband to Mrs. Carter -- Miss Laurentia Galindo, as was. He'd help her to bear her sorrow, even if he could not heal it. In a few months she'd brighten up again, and perhaps this time next year there should be three to look after, and not just the two, God bless them.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	38. A Disposition to Be Comforted

**Note to readers: Because story and author alerts were down on December 19th, when I posted chapter 37, "The History of a Love," some of my regular readers may have missed the update and the chapter. **

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, an adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**. It has no connection whatsoever to the BBC's 2009 sequel to **Cranford**, which has just aired in the United States.

All literary quotations below come from Jane Austen's **Persuasion**, and there is as well one tiny snippet from Heidi Thomas's **Cranford** script for episode three.

As always, I am very grateful to my readers, and welcome your comments and reviews. In fact I'm particularly eager to receive them for this chapter, which went through a great many permutations before it was finally posted.

Thanks particularly to smc0235, who has just posted a kind review and asked me to continue the story -- a nice bit of synchronicity, as I was in mid-revision when your messages came through. I live for occasions like that.

Thanks as well to the anonymous reviewer who posted while I was revising this story yet again!

Now let us return to the characters..

* * *

…_neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits._ **Persuasion**, by Jane Austen

* * *

**Chapter 38: A Disposition to Be Comforted**

Even if Harry had said nothing, Job should have heard about it -- in this place, tongues were never idle for long -- and besides, wouldn't he have seen the news for himself in Carter's stony face? Not that Carter wasn't always stern, whatever his fortunes, and not that Job would speak a word more than necessary, of course.

Any road, what could he say to him? _I'm sorry to hear Mrs. Carter is poorly, sir._ Well, that was true enough; he _was_ sorry. Carter didn't deserve ill luck, nor did that wife of his, not when she'd been so good to Harry.

In the end, though, Job thought he'd best hold his tongue. What business had he to be currying favor with Carter, or fretting about another man's wife? No, he'd leave it all to Harry. Harry should be sorry enough for them both.

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_Mr. Carter has arranged a little desk for me upstairs in the house, and when he brought in the wildflowers you had gathered, I knew at once they could find no other home but upon that selfsame desk. There they remain, looking bright and cheerful, and greatly improving the prospect before my eyes as I write this. It was very kind of you, Harry, to send me such a gift when I am so very much in-doors, and I thank you most warmly.  
_

_Moreover your kindness has not gone unnoticed, for when Lady Ludlow came to see how I was faring, she espied your flowers, and wished to know if I had disobeyed my physician's orders by going out into the fields and woods to gather them myself. You may well imagine how touched and moved my lady was to learn that they had come from you, as a token of your concern.  
_

_But her ladyship was right to believe I should enjoy being out of doors in this fine summer weather, and I have great hopes that it will not be long before Dr. Harrison deems my health sufficiently improved that I may take exercise.  
_

_I have great hopes as well, Harry, that we shall yet celebrate your birthday. I had talked to Mr. Carter of marking the occasion in the garden, with tea and cake, and though your birthday is now past, I am resolved to pursue such a plan, as soon as I am well enough, and your father gives you leave.__ I am glad to hear that he has taken up his flute again, and plays for all the family, and can easily imagine your little brothers and sisters gathered about him, begging for one merry tune or another._

_Mr. Carter tells me that you have as well been reading aloud to the family in the evenings, and I trust that has proven a comfort to your father, and a fine entertainment for Malachi and your sisters. _

_Mr. Carter and I have undertaken a similar effort while I am so much at home, and together we are reading a novel by Miss Austen. Did you know, Harry, that ladies wrote novels? When you are grown a bit older, perhaps you will read Miss Austen's works for yourself. I admire her very much, both for her wit and her understanding. Whether Mr. Carter admires her or not I cannot tell you; I suspect he has only consented to read the books to please me. But I honor him for his kind intentions, and trust that his present labors can do him no harm.  
_

_With kindest regards,  
_

_Laurentia Galindo Carter_

* * *

"Are you certain, Edward? You are not too tired?"

"By no means. I had rather thought _you_ might need your rest, and wish to retire at once."

"Edward, I have been at home all the day long, with very little to do but read, and sew, and write letters," said Laurie, conscious of the touch of impatience that had entered her voice. "And as much as I value Lady Ludlow's society, and Mrs. Morgan's, I desire yours as well," she continued, in a more amiable tone, "and should not like to squander this opportunity -- that is, if you do not find reading Miss Austen a dull occupation after the labors of the day. Indeed I had pondered whether you should not prefer something else -- Dickens, perhaps."

"Not Dickens, not at bedtime," said Edward. "No, I am certain the company of Miss Austen's sailors and their ladies should prove more suitable," he added generously, offering Laurie a little smile.

"Very well, Edward. Let us continue," said Laurie, taking up her book. "Should you like to read, or shall I?"

"I should like to hear you."

"Well, then." She opened the novel to the place she had marked. "Now, they had gone to Bath -- "

"Bath. Yes," said Edward, settling back into his pillows.

"And they had once more met with Mr. Elliot," said Laurie, with a glance at her husband.

"Yes. Mr. Elliot."

"Then I shall proceed with chapter sixteen." Laurie leaned back against her own pillows and, with another glance at Edward, began reading. "'There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain…'"

With no one to hear her but Edward, Laurie sought to keep her voice low and even, yet lively enough for a narrative, though after a few moments she quite forgot her manner of speaking, and even her audience, as she grew wholly absorbed in the story. When next she thought to look up from her text and see what Edward made of it all, she saw he was lying comfortably against the pillows, with his head nodding to one side, his lips parted, and his eyes closed.

"Edward," she whispered tentatively, but he did not stir at the sound of her voice, and she was left watching him as he drew each breath slowly, peacefully, unconsciously.

_Very_ unconsciously.

"Edward," she murmured again, firmly yet softly, her voice informed as much by affection as exasperation. She would not disturb him, though he had once again proven unequal to this proposed exercise of reading together. He had more than earned his rest.

Still, she did feel a degree of loneliness sitting awake with only a novel, and of course a sleeping husband, for company. A week spent convalescing at home had brought her quite near to despair, relieved only by Edward's society, and frequent visits from Lady Ludlow and Mrs. Morgan. Indeed at such a time Harry's artless messages of concern, and even Mrs. Greenfield's tact and kindness, meant a great deal.

But now treacherous Morpheus had stolen Edward from her once again, leaving nothing but the consolation of Miss Austen's novel -- which Laurie had always found engaging, even if her husband did not -- and the prospect of reading herself into a state of drowsiness.

With wistfulness, and a degree of envy, Laurie looked over again at Edward. He looked wholly contented lying there, and she wished that she might be resting so herself, though curled about him, as heretofore. He had been nothing if not gentle and kind during her convalescence, but after the first days had seemed hesitant to touch her.

She should have given all she possessed to restore their former happiness, and her rightful place in his arms.

* * *

But if her spirits were low, they had not been entirely quenched.

She suspected that by now Edward could only with difficulty distinguish one character from another, or recount a single event from Miss Austen's novel. It should afford Laurentia great entertainment to tease him when next they took up the book together.

She smiled to herself, and nestled into the pillows, as she opened the novel yet again and began to read, this time silently.

* * *

Why had she never noted the passage before?

_She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable..._

Mrs. Smith -- poor, brave, resilient Mrs. Smith! Laurentia had thought only to enjoy making her acquaintance again, much as Anne Elliot must have done when she had returned to Bath. Yet Miss Austen's account of their meeting had not brought solace, but reawakened pain.

_She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again..._

She ought to have put the book aside, and taken it up again when Edward was ready to listen, if only to avoid reading by herself, and making such a discovery.

_She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again..._

Yet she was glad, curiously glad, that Edward had already gone to sleep, and so been spared her tears.

* * *

Had she sat there a few minutes, or an hour? She could not say, nor did she know how long she had looked upon the page before her tears had dried, and her mind began again to grasp the meaning of the words before her eyes.

_A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from Nature alone._

Hers was not a submissive spirit, not at present. Indeed she might make complaint against God Himself, though Isobel should counsel faith, and Lady Ludlow fortitude, and Edward should fall silent, as though unable to refute her accusations.

_Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but, generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick-chamber. It is selfishness and impatience, rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world!_

But perhaps her resentment, though not her sorrow, was unjustified. She was by no means wholly bereft. Indeed she was well supplied with friends, and with counselors, if she chose, though surely they none of them truly understood, save Lady Ludlow, and Reverend Hutton, for he too had lost a child.

No, her situation was by no means cheerless. She bade herself acknowledge all blessings -- her kind, generous husband; Harry, whom she might love as a son; the Morgans and dear Miss Matty, who would surely call upon her as soon as was proper -- Laurentia had no doubt of that -- and of course Captain Brown.

Captain Brown. He had lost a daughter, and Jessie a sister. How could she have forgotten that? Truly, what right had she to rail against God?

Yet her spirit was not submissive, and her anger should at times burn as hotly as her tears. So should her love.

She looked over at Edward, who had stirred in his sleep but not woken. A lock of hair had gone astray on his forehead, almost obscuring a little scar that had remained behind after his accident, and there was another such mark visible upon his left cheek. Since their marriage she had each day looked upon both scars, until she had almost forgotten what they meant.

_Transcend_. _To rise above one's circumstances._ Edward had taught Harry the expression not long ago, and had resolved that for the boy it must not prove empty words. Yet circumstances had more than once tested their wills and spirits, even their very hearts.

Their hearts. Laurie softly laid a hand upon Edward's breast, and felt the life coursing through him. Slowly she drew her hand away, as if bestowing a caress, and then with light fingers brushed the lock of hair from his forehead. She leaned over to kiss the scar, very softly, before turning to extinguish the candle upon the nightstand, and to lie down again beside her dreaming husband.

* * *

He'd fully intended to remain awake, but it had been all up with him almost as soon as Laurie had begun to read. It was her voice, of course; its music had beguiled him into sleep, and into dreams.

And such dreams. In them he was as he had been, not maimed at all, and could mount his horse and ride out to the place where the railway ought to be.

When he arrived there, he found it pristine, untouched, as though no one had ever thought to build a railway.

He had turned his horse about then and returned to Hanbury, and his office, where he had found Laurie at her desk. _She_ was as she had been as well -- Miss Galindo, his unwilling clerk, with her provoking brown eyes and mischievous smile.

Or had she been Miss Galindo still? For she had leaned forward to kiss his face, and murmur in his ear -- _Edward, Edward_ -- and her hair had tumbled over her shoulders, and her slender, pale arms had gone about his neck, and her fingers into his hair.

When at last he awoke and found her asleep beside him, and remembered the dreams he'd had, he longed to see her open her eyes, hear her speak his name, feel her arms go about him.

But it should be very wrong, indeed selfish, of him to wake her just now, or even to touch her. Still, he could not stop himself from reaching out a hand and brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow, and gently stroking his thumb along her sweet, silent lips.

* * *

The bell had been a clever touch, and totally necessary, as he always grew so wholly absorbed in his work while seeing to the accounts. Beckett ought not to have required any summons, of course; his ears could detect the creak of a carriage wheel or the chatter of the ladies from a quarter-mile away. But Mr. Goddard delighted in the arrival of every customer, and thought the ringing of the bell as pleasant a welcome as any and so had no objection to hearing it each time the door opened.

The bell was ringing merrily just now, and for a most unexpected visitor.

"Why, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Goddard, as the estate manager stepped into the shop. "I am very glad to see you."

"Good morning, Mr. Goddard," said Mr. Carter, bowing in greeting. He was not a man given to smiling, but certainly looked to be in better spirits than he had at their last meeting.

"Mr. Carter, how is your good wife?" asked Mr. Goddard warmly.

"She is better, much better."

"Oh, I'm pleased to hear that, sir, and Mr. Beckett will be as well. She gave us such a fright the other day. Mind you, I don't know what we should have done if he hadn't seen she was poorly straightaway, and caught her as she fell."

"Caught her?"

"Why, yes. Bless me, I'm not as quick and strong a fellow as is Beckett, and though we both saw she was about to faint, 'twas he who broke her fall. And a good thing he did, too; the stone floor ought to have done her a dreadful mischief."

"Yes. Quite," said Mr. Carter, examining the floor.

"It's God's own mercy she wasn't abroad and unescorted when she was taken ill," added Mr. Goddard.

"No -- yes," said Mr. Carter.

"But I'm pleased to learn she's making such a good recovery, and hope I shall see her out and about soon."

"Yes," said the visitor. "That is, I don't doubt that you shall."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Goddard. "I've barely let you say a word since you came in that door. Now, then, sir, what might I do for you?"

"Do for me? Mr. Goddard, you have done a great deal for me already! In fact I came here with the intention of thanking you, and see now that I am doubly in your debt, and in Beckett's."

"Oh, there's no need for that, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Goddard, feeling his face turning red. "My wife was very touched by Mrs. Carter's letter of thanks, as was my good sister-in-law. They both of them would never have let her go, not without calling young Harrison in to see her. But then the ladies of this town do look after folk well."

"Indeed they do," said Mr. Carter gruffly, grasping his hat in both hands, and again studying the floor.

"I dare say my wife will call upon Mrs. Carter, once she's well enough, and my sister too. Of course one of them must see to the twins," added Mr. Goddard, chuckling. "But they will come; I'm certain of it. You know how the ladies are about paying calls."

* * *

"Now let us see you," called out Augusta.

With a smile, and a most unexpected touch of shyness, Caroline went through to the sitting-room, and the scrutiny of her sister and the children.

"Oh, that looks very well," said Augusta, glancing up and down with unfeigned approval, though perhaps too marked a degree of enthusiasm. "I am glad we were able to finish the dress in time."

"Do you not think the fabric a trifle distracting?" said Caroline, grasping a bit of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger.

"By no means," said her sister, still studying the gown as Caroline turned about. "Red always was very becoming to you, and the sprigged pattern is most charming. Doesn't Mama look pretty?" she said, appealing to the twins for their opinion.

"Pretty!" echoed little Elizabeth, clapping her hands, while her brother, declining to comment, instead looked with interest at the little basin his stepmama had brought with her.

"Now," continued Augusta. "is all in readiness?"

"Yes, though I own that I feel rather foolish bringing a jelly to Mrs. Carter. It is not as though she were an invalid, sister."

"I am certain she will receive it in the right spirit," replied Augusta crisply. "Besides, you went to the trouble of making it, and it should be a shame to leave it behind."

"Pudding!" said Philip hopefully, tugging at his stepmama's skirts.

"You'll have pudding later," said his aunt, as though such a sensible pronouncement meant anything in the least to a child.

"Pudding, Mama," said the boy again, stretching his arms up towards Caroline.

"Oh, no, dearest. Mama must go pay calls, and you shall stay here and play in the garden with Beth and Aunty Augusta."

"Go with Mama," insisted Philip, pulling again at Caroline's skirts.

"Go with Mama!" repeated Beth, fairly throwing herself against her stepmother's knee.

"Oh, Augusta," said Caroline, looking first at the twins, then at her sister. "Perhaps I ought to remain with the children, and you had better go in my stead."

At that Augusta's eyebrows lowered and her lips pressed tightly together. "Indeed I shall not. It was you who made the jelly, and got ready for the call. I should be doing you no favors by gadding all about the town, and out to Hanbury, and leaving you ever in seclusion.

"And it is very fine out, " she continued, in a more ingratiating tone. "I am certain you will find the fresh air invigorating, and Mrs. Carter's society most stimulating. She will be glad as well of your company, now that she may receive visitors."

Caroline doubted very much that Mrs. Carter had any desire to see her, but she knew that when Augusta assumed that expression, all objections should be for naught. "Be good children, both of you," she said, leaning down to kiss one twin, then the other. "And mind Aunty Augusta."

"Go with Mama!" Philip set up a final wail of protest, in which his twin sister joined.

"Do not worry, Caroline," said Augusta, detaching one pair of little hands from Caroline's skirts, then another. "I shall find something to distract them in due course.

"Pay your calls," she added, over the howls of the children, "and by no means feel any compunction to hurry back."

With a last glance back at her twins, and no small degree of guilt, Mrs. Goddard departed the house. It _had_ been a great while since she had gone out, and she had always known the day must come when she could no longer hide behind doors and curtains.

* * *

Augusta had been most insistent that Caroline call upon Mrs. Carter, and Augusta was right about most things. But this matter, it appeared, she had been very much mistaken.

It was not that Mrs. Carter had been anything other than gracious. She had offered refreshment, and inquired after Mr. Goddard's health, as well as Augusta's, and even introduced one or two subjects that should neither offend nor vex Caroline. Yet it had all seemed a mere pantomime, and it seemed that both of them knew it.

Worse still, each topic of conversation proved awkward, from the first explanation Caroline gave.

"My sister should very much have liked to have accompanied me, but she must look after the -- "

Caroline stopped herself before she could utter the offending word. "My sister is much occupied at home. That is, she often helps me with my duties," she said, forcing a smile.

After that Mrs. Carter had tactfully advanced their discussion to other matters, and had inquired after her tastes in reading, which ought to have proven a soothing topic. But of late Caroline had been too much engaged with the twins to find time for the romances she had once so enjoyed, let alone anything more, and her hostess's mention of Miss Austen and Mr. Dickens left her painfully conscious of her own ignorance.

The requisite fifteen minutes had passed, or very nearly, and with no small degree of relief Caroline began to think of taking her leave. But there remained one task yet, a matter that had troubled her conscience for some time, and she knew she must not depart without addressing it.

"Mrs. Carter, do forgive me for speaking of this, but of course there have been questions regarding your -- your illness."

"Yes." At that Mrs. Carter's eyes took on a guarded expression, much to her visitor's discomfiture.

Caroline hastened to continue. "Of course neither Augusta nor I would breathe a word of its nature to any living soul."

"No," replied Mrs. Carter softly.

"But the subject has excited some interest, you see, and we neither of us wish to be indiscreet, _or_ rude."

"I understand."

"And you must not be cross with my sister," went on Caroline, "for surmising what was wrong. I assure you that she has ever after kept silent regarding her suspicions, and -- "

She paused, seeing evidence first of shock, then of sorrow, appear in Mrs. Carter's eyes. Fearing that her hostess was very near to tears, Caroline hastened to complete her mission.

"Augusta and I agreed between ourselves that if anyone should be so impertinent as to ask what had been the matter, we should say that you were taken ill quite suddenly, and had been conveyed home, and were making a good recovery. But we did not ask your leave to offer such an explanation. Did we do right, Mrs. Carter? If there is anything we must say or do --"

"Mrs. Goddard, you have done so much already, and your husband and sister as well, and Mr. Beckett," said Mrs. Carter. "It should be very wrong to reproach you for yet another act of kindness."

"Augusta told me you would understand," said Caroline, at last feeling a weight lift from her heart.

"Indeed I am most beholden to you both."

"Oh! Pray do not regard yourself as 'beholden,'" said Caroline, warming to her subject. "After all, we are _neighbors_, as Miss Jenkyns always said."

* * *

"I should have liked to have brought you some of our roses," said Miss Matty, taking her place upon the sofa. "But it has been so dry of late, and they require a little rain to refresh themselves."

"That is very kind of you, Miss Matty, but it is your company that is the most delightful gift," said Mrs. Carter, settling gracefully into her own chair. "And I am eager to hear all your news. I trust everyone is in good health?"

"We are all very well, though my brother does laugh at everyone for complaining of the heat, and says we none of us would stir out of doors, if we were made to live in India," said Miss Matty, chuckling. "Oh! And talking of summer heat, I have the most remarkable news concerning Mary. She has been invited to accompany her aunt on a journey to London -- to London!"

"I do not doubt she will enjoy that," said Mrs. Carter. "Though I imagine you miss her very much."

"I do mourn her absence," said Miss Matty, looking down at her hands. "We all of us do, Martha especially. But I should not keep her from London, and its diversions, when she has had so much trouble. Oh! And I have forgotten the best news of all. Who do you suppose shall be waiting for her when she arrives?

"I cannot tell."

"Why, Dr. Marshland. Her betrothed."

* * *

It had seemed to Mary almost wrong even to contemplate going to London when she might be needed at home, but Mama had been most insistent that it should be no inconvenience. Papa, of course, had proven more resistant but could hardly refuse his sister the company of her favorite niece, or deny Mary the opportunity.

Thereafter had followed a week of preparation, and then the departure itself. Aunt Trafford had been entirely correct about travel; it _was_ most stimulating, but also spent one's energy and resources, especially if the journey involved a considerable distance. Still, Mary had found it exhilarating to gaze out the windows of the train as it made its way past the late-summer fields. She could see people going about their work, sometimes looking up and watching as the train passed, and found herself wondering about all those strangers, and the joys they experienced, the sorrows they bore.

Her own were evident, or at least to be guessed at, owing to her black dress and lack of ornament.

Despite being in mourning, however, she would by no means be denied what pleasures the city offered. Aunt Trafford and their cousin would see to that.

Moreover, as soon as it might be arranged, they had extended an invitation to Jack to dine with them, and now Mary, having made ready for the great occasion, stood before the looking-glass. She did not mean to make any addition to her toilette, for there was nothing she might change, but to study her own face. There was something of weariness in her expression, as well as of grief, and the color of her gown only drew attention to both. It had been mere weeks since she and Jack had seen each other, yet it was possible he might find her much altered.

But then a great deal had happened since then.

* * *

Thank God he'd a decent waistcoat to wear to supper. Of course he'd not make a coxcomb of himself, not when Mary was in mourning, but neither should her relations think he hadn't sense enough to dress properly for an evening in company.

He leaned towards the looking-glass. Was that a bit of grey in his hair? Well, then, so be it; his father had been just the same before he was thirty. So Mother had always said. He should be proud to be as good a man as his father, and there was certainly no shame at all in looking like him, grey hairs or no.

But Mary hadn't known his father, and would never know his father, and Jack wondered if she would find _him_ greatly altered, for all that they'd been apart for but a few weeks.

* * *

_Jack, Jack, could you not have shut your gob for five minutes? _

He'd fully intended to prove a credit to Mary, and deferential to her aunt and cousins. But almost as soon as he'd opened his mouth to answer a question, the words had kept pouring out, one after the other. He'd talked of his work, of Scotland, of the weather, of any nonsense that came into his head, and could feel his face burning all the while, and how he kept smiling too, like the great fool he was.

Worst of all was having Mary fully across the room from him, and looking no happier for his being here. All the days and nights he'd spent dreaming of her, and promising himself that their parting should be well worth it, if only she'd be proud of him! But there was no chance of that now, or even of a smile, let alone a kiss.

Dear God, he'd spoilt everything, and before Mary's relations to the bargain.

* * *

"Mary, I should like your company this morning on a walk, and for one or two errands. Can you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"

Mary made haste to put away her pocket-handkerchief. "Of course, Aunt. Indeed I do not think I shall require so much time as that."

Aunt Trafford was looking intently into her niece's face, but made no inquiry as to why Mary's eyes should be red and swollen.

"Excellent. I shall expect you downstairs presently, and we shall be on our way. It should be quite unpardonable to waste such fine weather as this, or to squander your opportunity to see something of London, and I dare say the exercise will do you good."

And with that she turned away, leaving Mary to fetch her bonnet, and perhaps regain a degree of composure.

* * *

"Now here is a pleasant prospect," said Aunt Trafford as they turned down another path in the park, and were rewarded with the view of an impressive statue, and a well-tended arrangement of flowerbeds. "It is well that London offers good places to walk, when we neither of us have ever learnt to ride.

"I take it that Dr. Marshland keeps a horse," she added. "When he is in Manchester."

"Indeed he does, Aunt." Mary was not about to reveal that that selfsame horse had brought Jack to and from Cranford an almost unseemly number of times.

"Such a pity. You might have together gone on a ride through the park, as the young people do here. It is a most charming practice, and quite the fashion, as I recall."

"I fear that while I am in London, Dr. Marshland and I will by no means distinguish ourselves among people of fashion," said Mary, smiling, a bit sadly. "Though of course he knows the city, and I do not in the least."

"Do not be so severe with yourself, my dear," said her aunt crisply. "Or with him."

"Yet I must apologize for his behavior the other night," continued Mary. "And for my own ill humor afterwards. I had thought it should prove a great comfort to see Dr. Marshland again; there has been such sorrow since last we met. Now I discover I have come such a long way to learn he has nothing whatever to say to me."

"On the contrary, I fear he had too much to say to you!"

Again Mary smiled to herself. "Indeed I believe everyone present learned more than they wished ever to know about diseases of the eye, or sea-journeys to Ireland, or the weather in Scotland. Dr. Marshland is a sociable man, and enjoys conversation, but even I thought he wanted some restraint."

"Mary, it should be a wonderful thing if men could be relied upon always to do precisely as we would have them do, but that is by no means possible. And I would further observe that a young man working to advance himself in his profession, and to ingratiate himself with his future relations, must of necessity succumb to nerves now and then. In fact it is to be expected."

Mary walked on in chastened silence. Jack had been extremely unhappy when he'd left the house the other night, and she had given him no indication that he should be welcome to return, though of course her aunt and cousins _had_.

"At such a time you must furnish the example, by your patience and restraint – that is not to say coldness," continued Aunt Trafford. "I dare say you understand my meaning."

"I believe I do, Aunt."

"Good.

"Now we must turn back. Such a pity; the weather is very fine, and I feel I could walk all the day long. We must return here on Sunday, if it is a pleasant day. Do you think your young man would consent to accompany us? After all, he cannot always be working."

"No. No, he cannot."

* * *

Sunday. Thank God he hadn't despaired enough to do himself a mischief, and had lived till Sunday.

He'd never thought to see such a grand day again, especially not after Scotland, when his only company had seemed to consist of books and grey skies, and of course Ferguson, if he was truly lucky.

But all that was forgotten now, and the other night as well, or nearly. Mary had been in a tolerably good humor when he'd called upon her and her aunt, though of course she must play the dutiful niece, and primly walk by his side, with her aunt more or less standing guard at his other elbow. Still, it had been no punishment to accompany two ladies through the park, and they'd not wanted for conversation, either.

Afterwards he'd escorted them back, and of course Mary's elder cousin had insisted he take some refreshment with them. A servant had collected his hat, and Jack was still dusting off his coat and straightening his neckcloth when Mary came back downstairs, having put off her bonnet.

Without thinking he had gone to the foot of the stairs. She paused on the step just above him and smiled, lowering her eyes just as she had done when he'd sung to the company at the Tomkinson sisters' Christmas Eve party.

Only it wasn't Christmas Eve, and the Tomkinson sisters and even Miss Matty were nowhere to be found, and Mary came down that final step and stood before him, shyly placing one hand against his chest, as though _she_ wanted to brush off his coat, or arrange his neckcloth herself.

But she wasn't thinking of such things, not just then.

"I have become so accustomed to watching for the post," she said, smiling. "There was always a letter from you, or nearly always. I looked for a direction written in your hand, with a great many blotches of ink."

They both chuckled at the image, though Mary kept her eyes lowered, and seemed to be close to tears.

"I confess, though, that the penny post has been most inadequate these past weeks," she said, at last looking directly at Jack. "Perhaps it is very selfish of me to say as much -- "

"Selfish? No, no --"

" -- but I have wished you back in Manchester a dozen times."

"Mary -- "

That was all that he said, or could say, as he gave her no opportunity to speak another word while he showed her how very much he had missed her, and it wasn't until Mary's aunt produced a credible imitation of a cough that they were reminded that their presence was required in the sitting-room, almost at that moment.

* * *

"I do not think Mrs. Carter so very altered," opined Miss Pole, as she and Mrs. Forrester made their way back to Cranford. "She is as rational as ever she was, for all that she has pledged away her liberty to a man."

"But she is grown melancholy since her illness," said her friend with a little sigh. "I thought I detected a certain want of spirit."

"That is not so very strange in itself, Mrs. Forrester. _I_ should not like to be made to stop at home, and forgo all manner of intercourse. Mrs. Carter shall soon be set right by resuming her duties, and her accustomed exercise. Indeed I do not know what I should become if I might not have the pleasure of a daily walk."

"I should have thought it as much a necessity as a pleasure, Miss Pole," cackled Mrs. Forrester. "The robust figure is by no means enhanced by a life of indolence."

"Yes. Well," said Miss Pole, her eyes narrowing and her mouth working. "I trust I have acquitted myself well in that regard, and do not entertain an idle minute or thought from sunup to sundown.

"In fact our call upon Mrs. Carter has inspired me to contemplate a new undertaking. Should you like to hear the plan?"

"Does it involve Mrs. Carter?"

"Mrs. Forrester, it involves a great many people. But let us not play a game of Yes and No; attend to me for a moment, and I shall reveal all..."

* * *

"You are not feeling unwell, Laurie?" said Edward as they mounted the stairs.

"Unwell? By no means. I am only a little tired," said Laurie. She _was_ tired, and well contented to be going upstairs, and to have taken Edward's arm while doing so.

"I had only thought -- well, I had thought you might be feeling faint."

"Oh, no. It is only that I have been discussing news and novels all the afternoon long with fully one-quarter of the ladies in Cranford. Or perhaps half."

Edward smiled at that, not the dutiful, desperate smile of previous days, but an evident recognition of her somewhat recovered spirits.

"Well, then, we must get you to bed, and I shall read aloud to you, if you like."

"I confess I am very sleepy just now, and do not care to read tonight." At that Edward showed astonishment, and another emotion. Laurie could not quite decide whether it was disappointment or relief.

"But perhaps you are not sleepy yourself," she continued, "and should prefer to read until you grow drowsy."

"There is no need," he said, patting her hand. "Not tonight."

* * *

The day, she decided, had marked a beginning and an ending, the resumption of life as she had known it, and the conclusion of her convalescence. She felt both heartened and disconcerted. She was altered, and should be always, yet was the same woman still. Life proceeded as it always had, with calls and conversation and cups of tea, and yet no one talked of what was most important. Everything had changed and nothing had changed. How was that possible?

And how could she speak of any of it to Edward? Yet she must make a beginning there as well.

He had settled into his accustomed place, and looked very tired himself. No doubt he should fall asleep almost as soon as she put out the candle. What she must say she must say quickly.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Might I rest my head upon your shoulder, as I have been wont to do?"

"Of course."

Laurie extinguished the candle, then turned about in the darkness.

"Edward?"

"Here. Take my hand." She felt his hand grasp hers, and with some awkwardness Laurie crept to his side of the bed, and settled herself next to her husband, her hand resting upon his chest, her head against his shoulder. For a few moments they lay there in silence, sleep temporarily eluding both of them.

"Edward, I should like things to be as they were," said Laurie suddenly.

He made no reply, but she knew that he had heard her, for he began to stroke her hair, as he had done so many times.

"Do you understand what I meant, Edward?" she whispered, her voice almost breaking.

"I think I do," he said honestly, still caressing her.

She pillowed her head upon his chest, and could feel the beating of his heart. Edward turned to kiss the top of her head.

"I should like things to be as they were," she whispered again.

He laid a hand over hers. "We shall talk of it. Rest now, my love."

"Edward -- "

"All shall be well." He touched his lips again to her hair.

She had a great deal more to say to him, and to ask of him, but in this moment his words must serve as a benediction, and his arms as a refuge, as she closed her eyes upon this day at last.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	39. New Dreams

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, which was based on Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**. My story, however, has no connection whatsoever to the BBC's 2009 sequel.

Many thanks to everyone who is faithfully following this saga, especially everyone posting reviews, offering encouragement, and signing up for alerts. I want to give a particular shout-out to smc0235 and an anonymous person, both of whom have recently begun submitting comments.

This chapter of "A Conspiracy of Concern" has been brought to you by the Blizzard of 2010, keeping people on the East Coast of the United States cooped up in their homes since...2010.

**Chapter 39: New Dreams**

* * *

Laurie was fairly breathless from running, and from laughing. He clasped her hand in his as they both hastened down the lawn at Hanbury towards the little stone bridge. The ground was soft beneath their feet, the grass the rich deep green of summer, and the sun just bright enough to provide them warmth.

They arrived at the bridge and he was astonished to see that a garden lay just on the other side. How, when he knew every inch of the estate, might he have overlooked such a thing?

He turned to Laurie and saw her looking up at him from beneath the brim of an ordinary straw bonnet. Today was their wedding day, he remembered, and yet Laurie was dressed as he'd seen her a hundred times, in a familiar brown dress and boots.

He put an arm about her waist and drew her along beside him. That was familiar too -- the curve of her slender yet sturdy body, the suggestion of delicate softness. He left his hand resting upon her hip as they crossed over the bridge.

"No one will disturb us here," he said when they reached the garden.

Laurie looked up at him again, and this time she blushed, but she smiled too, and the expression in her eyes offered every proof that she understood his meaning, that she consented to his unspoken wish. Almost shyly she pressed her hand against his lapel, nearly over his heart, and he saw she was holding a rosebud in her fingers, but then there were roses all about them too, nothing but roses...

* * *

She started awake, her heart pounding, as she had done many times since she was a girl. It was always as though she had been out walking, and had tripped and fallen to the ground.

This time, though, she was not alone, and as she opened her eyes she found Edward asleep beside her. Evidently her sudden movement had not woken him, and he remained safely within the embrace of his dreams.

She shifted herself slightly, bringing her arm lightly across his chest, resting her hand upon his heart, as she once more shut her eyes against the darkness.

* * *

Dada didn't take Harry's hand or put an arm round his shoulder as they made their way up the path to the great house. But the two of them walked so closely side by side, and step by step, they might have been one man, even though Dada was taller -- but not so much taller as he had been.

Mr. Carter was of course already waiting for them in the hall. He was standing beneath one of the windows with Reverend Hutton, who smiled at Harry. Dada, having remembered to take off his hat, nodded back at the rector.

The four of them had not been standing together long when her ladyship appeared, her step light and quick, for all that she used a walking stick, tapping it on the black and white floor as she went along.

"Good day to you, Rector," she said, almost smiling.

"My lady." The rector bowed, and so did Mr. Carter.

"Mr. Carter." Her ladyship gave a little nod of her head to him, then turned to Dada. "Job Gregson, I see that you have brought your son, and at the appointed time."

"Yes, my lady."

"I take it, then, that as the boy's father, you have given your wholehearted consent to this proceeding."

Harry looked up at Dada.

"I have, madam."

"Very well," said her ladyship. She turned her eyes upon Harry. "Harry Gregson, from this day forward you no longer serve the Hanbury estate, but rather owe your duty to the parish. For your sake, and Mr. Carter's, and the rector's, I have consented to this plan. Indeed it is only through the efforts of such powerful advocates that you have won your present opportunity. I trust you will not use it ill."

"No, my lady," said Harry firmly, though he wanted to ask Mr. Carter, or perhaps Reverend Hutton, what "advocates" meant.

"From henceforth you shall receive a modest stipend for the tasks you perform in the service of the parish library and, once it is established, the school. Moreover you shall be expected to devote a portion of each day to study, in which Reverend Hutton has most generously offered to assist you.

"This arrangement is intended not only to discharge your obligation to your family, but to provide for your moral and spiritual welfare. You must guard against temptation, Harry," she went on, never taking her eyes from his face. "Attend to your prayers, and use whatever you learn in service of the good. I trust Mr. Carter has already taught you as much."

"Yes, my lady," answered Harry solemnly, glancing over at Mr. Carter as he spoke.

"Now," said Lady Ludlow, "there are one or two matters upon which I should like to have your counsel, Rector, if you will be so good as to accompany me to the library."

"Of course, my lady."

"And you, Mr. Carter," said her ladyship, turning to the estate manager, "have some business to discuss with Mr. Gregson, I believe."

"Indeed, my lady."

"I shall not keep you, then." With that she turned back to Harry. "You are a good boy," she said softly, "and, if you remain diligent and obedient, will surely become a good man.

"Now, Rector--"

And in a moment she had gone, taking Reverend Hutton with her.

* * *

"Good news, Dada?" asked Harry when his father returned from speaking to Mr. Carter.

"Never you mind!" But Dada smiled, almost chuckled, and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Come on, lad. Let's be off."

* * *

Laurentia had counted it no privilege to be kept at home for many days, to be waited upon and looked after. Truly one did not hold the most ordinary pleasures dear until they were snatched away, and she resolved hereafter to be grateful for every opportunity to walk freely over the fields, into the woods, and through the village, without ever asking Dr. Harrison's leave.

She could as well again think of the home Edward had made for her as a refuge, and not a prison, though perhaps, if she were scrupulously honest, she should confess it was her own body that had become the prison. Reverend Hutton might perhaps tell her as much, if she sought his opinion, and indeed it would be wise, after the despair of the past weeks, to spend a few moments receiving the counsel of that good man.

Yet Laurentia did not on this day feel equal to laying her thoughts and fears, let alone faults, before the rector. Her concerns were at present more temporal than spiritual, she decided, as she made her way towards Dr. Morgan's surgery.

* * *

The name "Mrs. Carter" did not come easily to his lips, for all that he'd had a little time to accustom himself to her new station. She had for so many years been Miss Galindo, Miss Laurentia Galindo, and had come to him with any concerns regarding her family's health, or indeed her own.

That had been before her marriage, however, and before her recent sorrow, and before Mr. Goddard's man had fetched Frank to attend her. Since then the younger physician had had charge of Mrs. Carter's care, and evidently impressed Mr. Carter sufficiently that there had been no need for Dr. Morgan's services.

And yet Mrs. Carter had come to him. After all her trouble, she had come to him.

"I must confess myself a bit astonished by your request to see me," began Dr. Morgan. "Are you not well contented with Dr. Harrison's treatment?"

"It is no slight against his abilities, I assure you, that I have come to speak with you today," said Mrs. Carter. "My husband has nothing but the highest praise for Dr. Harrison's efforts."

"And do you?" he asked gently.

"Dr. Harrison is extremely knowledgeable," said Mrs. Carter carefully. "And he is a most considerate young man.

"But for all that he has the finest medical training," she continued, raising her eyebrows and looking up at Dr. Morgan, "and only the best intentions, he is hardly your equal in experience, and perhaps cannot provide the counsel I seek."

"What counsel is that, Mrs. Carter?"

At that Mrs. Carter appeared to lose her accustomed ease, and struggled to find the words to continue. "I would surmise that over the years of your practice," she said quietly, "you have often served as father-confessor, and that many a patient has revealed his or her secrets, perhaps even sins."

"My dear Mrs. Carter, _every_ physician has a sacred obligation to his patients," said Dr. Morgan. "But we are none of us without sins of our own," he added with a sigh. "You must not mistake us for better men than we are.

"You may nevertheless tell me whatever you wish, and I shall do my best to answer your questions, and keep your counsel."

"Pray do not misunderstand me. I have no wicked revelations to make. Yet there is something I must ask you regarding -- that is -- forgive me, Dr. Morgan. I am no longer certain I can form the words."

"Mrs. Carter, I promise you that I shall endeavor to help in any fashion I might, and moreover shall not utter a single word of reproach. Now then," he said gently. "Let us begin again."

Again it seemed to cost Mrs. Carter a considerable effort to speak. "You can surely guess the nature of my question, or nearly."

"I think I can," said Dr. Morgan quietly, simply.

"There is a scarcely a living soul to whom I might speak of it," she continued, bowing her head. "Everyone has been very kind, but dares not utter a word of what has happened. Even my husband -- he is all gentleness, Dr. Morgan, but so grieved I cannot bear it, not when I have disappointed him in such a fashion."

"Disappointed him?"

"By losing our child." She said it softly, so softly Dr. Morgan could barely hear her words. He took her hands in his, and held them during a long, painful silence.

When next she spoke, it was through tears. "I have a thousand times pondered how I spent the last weeks. I knew the signs, Dr. Morgan. I had been careful to learn what I might expect, yet I did not speak a word of my suspicions to my husband. I thought possibly I might be mistaken, and truth to tell, I was a bit frightened."

"That was only natural, Mrs. Carter," said Dr. Morgan warmly. "You must not be so severe with yourself."

At that she looked up, her eyes so vulnerable, and wet with tears, that he saw again the girl Laurentia he had known.

"I dare say I thought myself very incautious," she said, sniffing awkwardly. "That is, I believed myself responsible for --"

She did not finish the thought, and Dr. Morgan held both her hands within his own until she composed herself enough to continue.

"Dr. Harrison said such a thing is unfortunate but not uncommon, and certainly was not owing to my own behavior. Yet I fear that I shall never bear a child, and --"

"Mrs. Carter," said Dr. Morgan, with deliberate firmness, "I assure you that need not be so."

"Then other women have --"

"They have indeed, and I have _very_ often seen a woman give birth to a healthy child after an earlier disappointment."

At that Mrs. Carter let out a sigh. "Dr. Harrison said as much, but it comforts me greatly to hear the same from you. Of course that is not intended as any manner of affront to Dr. Harrison."

"Of course not," said Dr. Morgan reassuringly.

Mrs. Carter gave expression to her relief in another little sigh, and in a smile. But the smile was followed by a delicate blush as she began to speak again.

"There _is_ another matter I scarcely know how to address, but I shall endeavor to try. When might I -- that is, when might my husband -- when might we -- "

She paused, either for want of the proper expression, or from embarrassment, or perhaps in the expectation that he knew precisely what she meant.

"Ah. You mean when might you live together as heretofore. Within another month, I should think, Mrs. Carter."

"Another month," she repeated. "And then he need have no compunction about --"

"By no means, Mrs. Carter, not once you have regained your former health and vigor."

She smiled again, a little shyly. "I do feel a good deal more energetic."

"Good. Your sleep is untroubled?"

Once more she blushed. "I confess I have of late suffered from nightmares."

"Oh, that will not do. I would counsel against taking late suppers and of course subjecting yourself to any vexation in the evenings. And though I doubt very much that you read anything that is_ not_ edifying, take special care that you choose things that are light and diverting. No ponderous essays, if you please, Mrs. Carter," he added, with a little smile.

"I should think not, Dr. Morgan," said Mrs. Carter with mock severity. "It is rest I crave, not boredom."

Dr. Morgan chuckled appreciatively before continuing. "Above all else, you are not to worry, Mrs. Carter," he said emphatically. "_That_ is my prescription. Do not make undue demands upon yourself. Why, you might even ask your husband to take you away on a holiday."

"A holiday?" Mrs. Carter's eye widened again. "Oh, surely not, Dr. Morgan. It is nearing harvest time, and my husband has a great many responsibilities."

_And what of his responsibility to you?_ But Dr. Morgan did not speak the thought aloud, and said only, "Perhaps later, then, after the harvest."

"But there is the school to think of as well, Dr. Morgan," said Mrs. Carter in haste. "I suspect we shall both of us be very busy indeed in the coming months."

"Mrs. Carter, I am not proposing that either of you neglect your duties, only that you pay due attention to your health and spirits."

At that Mrs. Carter colored again, and lowered her gaze. "Indeed, Dr. Morgan," she said softly, "my husband has shown me only the tenderest consideration these past weeks."

The troubled expression in her eyes suggested there was as yet something upon her heart, and Dr. Morgan gave her a moment to contemplate sharing this additional confidence.

"It is only that I wish for things to be as they were."

"You must exercise a little patience with yourself, Mrs. Carter," said Dr. Morgan. "And with your husband. Look after your own health, and his, allow him to comfort you, and I have no doubt that things will proceed as they ought."

"You think we ought to take a holiday." It was a statement and a question.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I should think visiting a new place ought to refresh the both of you."

"It is strange, Dr. Morgan," sighed Mrs. Carter. "But one also finds comfort in familiar surroundings, and in familiar, indeed ordinary things."

"Indeed one does," said Dr. Morgan warmly. "That is a wise observation. But one may also dream of a good deal more."

* * *

His Mary had never taken up drawing, and perhaps that was a pity. She'd a gift for observation -- her letters proved as much -- and Jack knew she'd an eye to see the charm and loveliness in the most ordinary things, let alone the grandest. There would come a day when he'd show her the sea, and thereafter Ireland, and sometimes at night before he fell asleep he traced every step of their prospective journey, and imagined the look in Mary's eyes when she saw Ireland in all its harsh and delicate beauty, its ghostly greys and rich greens.

But just now, of course, he could show her London, only it hadn't turned out quite that way, for all that Jack knew and liked the city, and had a fond memory or two of his time at Guy's. No, it was Mary's aunt who was guiding both of them, and a good thing it was, too, for it gave him the chance of an hour or two of Mary's company, and in places that were a vast improvement over the libraries and hospitals and rented rooms where he had spent much of his time these past months.

The National Gallery, for one. Mary's aunt had been duly shocked to learn that Jack had never set foot in the place, and almost as soon as he had called that first time, she had set about planning an excursion for the three of them.

And it _was _grand to walk through such a place with Mary, to see everything for himself, and the look on her own face as well as she admired a painting or a statue, or giggled at one of Jack's whispered comments.

They had stopped before a curious old painting of a glum-looking fellow, dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and a queer black hat, and holding a lady by the hand. The woman was in a gown of the deepest green and had with her other hand gathered up her skirts at the front, and Jack thought she looked just as though she were about to have a child, perhaps even that very day, for all that this was supposed to be her wedding picture! Of course he didn't speak a word of that to anyone, not even Mary. But still he smiled broadly at the painting, until Mary had to ask him what he found so funny.

* * *

Miss Pole ought to have made an excellent bird of prey; she'd a sharp and practiced gaze, and it was a rare creature who could escape her notice.

That meant, however, that friendship with her held its advantages, and on this particular day she detected the presence of a most interesting personage, and was crying out, "Mr. Carter! Mr. Carter!" before Mrs. Forrester had glimpsed the gentleman herself.

Thereafter it should require both energy and resolve to keep pace with Miss Pole's brisk step, but Mrs. Forrester was more than equal to the task. Besides, it would have been most unseemly to allow her friend to reach dear Mr. Carter's side unaccompanied.

"Miss Pole. Mrs. Forrester." He nodded, his hand on his hat brim, as both ladies reached his proximity.

"Mr. Carter!" Mrs. Forrester, almost breathless, offered the gentleman a suitable reverence, then spoke again before Miss Pole might reclaim the conversational ground. "How is your dear wife?"

Poor man! He looked rather sober at the question, though he recovered admirably, and replied, in that fine manly voice, "She is quite well, Mrs. Forrester, and has now resumed her accustomed walks to the village. No doubt she will have the pleasure of calling upon you soon."

"That is delightful news," cooed Mrs. Forrester, but before she could say anything more Miss Pole interjected, "Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester, did I not tell you that I caught sight of the lady myself in Princess Street fully two days ago and, though I could not overtake her, thought she looked as well as ever she did? Not that I quarrel with your right to make report of Mrs. Carter's restored health yourself, Mr. Carter," she said, turning to that gentleman. "But there is other news of import to discuss." Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, "I have this day heard the most astonishing report concerning young Harry Gregson. Is it true, Mr. Carter? Is he indeed to be trained up as librarian to the parish, or perhaps schoolmaster?"

At that Mr. Carter actually smiled. "Harry will be assisting the rector with the parish library, it is true," he said. "But he must also of necessity spend a good deal of time in study, as a boy of his age ought to do. Once the school opens, he will make himself useful there as well."

"Then it is a sort of apprenticeship, Mr. Carter."

"It is indeed, Miss Pole -- "

"A sweet boy, that Gregson lad," said Mrs. Forrester warmly. "I suspected he should in time prove his worth to us all."

"The boy does indeed possess talent, Mrs. Forrester," agreed Mr. Carter. "It should have been very wrong to waste it. But every man -- every child -- is born with intelligence, and must learn to use it."

"In making such a pronouncement," said Miss Pole coolly, "I hope it was not your intention to exclude the female sex."

"No indeed, Miss Pole! Mrs. Carter should thank you for correcting me, but I dare say you know her opinions yourself."

"I am well acquainted with her views, Mr. Carter," said Miss Pole, nodding her head, "and have drawn inspiration from them."

"Inspiration? What manner of inspiration?"

"Miss Pole has proposed the formation of a literary society," said Mrs. Forrester happily.

At that Miss Pole's face went very pink, and the expression in her eyes suggested at the least wounded feelings, and at the most anger. Yet she could uncharacteristically produce no words to give voice to either emotion before Mr. Carter said, "A literary society? That the ladies might pen their own verse and prose?"

"Indeed not, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Forrester, chuckling. "For I know of no one among us who possesses such ambition!"

"I would propose, Mrs. Forrester, " said Miss Pole crisply, "that you make no such pronouncement before divining the wishes of each member of the community. Indeed there might perhaps be the equal of Miss Austen or Miss Barrett among our number."

She turned back to Mr. Carter. "But it was not my intention, Mr. Carter, to discuss concealed talents or ambitions. I should only observe that there is not a lady among us but takes sincere pleasure in reading. I know not whether the same can be said of the gentlemen, though I _have_ often seen Captain Brown going about with one work or other by Mr. Dickens, and laughing most immoderately during his perusal of the same.

"But of course one cannot always be acquiring a new novel from the bookseller," continued Miss Pole. "We are all of us prudent in our expenditures, and on occasion there must needs be a dearth of new things to read. The newspaper, of course, has it its uses, but is wholly insufficient as a source of diversion, to say nothing of edification."

"So we would enhance our modest resources," put in Mrs. Forrester, "by sharing them with each other. Should you not like, Mr. Carter, to read before us all on an evening in autumn, or perhaps in winter? Oh, it should be uncommonly pleasant to hear literature read aloud in a strong masculine voice," she added, shivering with pleasure.

"I am greatly flattered, Mrs. Forrester --"

"Of course dear Mrs. Carter must play her part in such an entertainment as well," added Mrs. Forrester hastily. "She is known for a great reader, and we should not think to form a literary society without her."

"_We_ have as yet formed nothing, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole tartly. "Though, when we do, Mrs. Carter's counsel would be most welcome," she added, turning back to Mr. Carter. "And if the Gregson boy is now to be our parish librarian, why, then perhaps we shall want his opinion as well!"

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Carter. It is well I found you before you made your way home."

"Dr. Morgan." Edward nodded in greeting. There was scarcely anyone he had had less expectation of meeting as he made ready to leave his office. Her ladyship was in tolerably good health, and he knew of no illness or injury among the staff.

"I shall not keep you, of course, when your wife is awaiting your return," said Dr. Morgan pleasantly. "But might I have leave to accompany you part of the way? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you."

"Of course," said Edward."Does it concern the school?"

"The school?" said Dr. Morgan, turning to look at his companion while keeping in pace with him. "Oh, no, bless me, it does not."

"No? But I should like to have your opinion, and perhaps your assistance, on one or two matters," said Edward.

"I am greatly flattered, Mr. Carter! Perhaps we ought to arrange a time to speak of them. But I have come on another matter, something I have been turning over in my mind."

"I hope I can be of help."

"I had occasion to speak with your wife the other day," began Dr. Morgan.

"Indeed." Edward frowned. Dr. Harrison had attended Laurie from the first, and surely there was no need of another physician.

"Yes. She was out and about, and looked very well. It did my heart good to see her, after she had been kept so many days in-doors. I dare say that was unavoidable, but she cannot have cared for it much."

"No." Despite himself Edward smiled. "Indeed it was only with reluctance that she submitted to Dr. Harrison's orders."

"I can well imagine," answered Dr. Morgan, chuckling. "I often think, Mr. Carter, that it is a wonder any medical man can build a practice here, when the women show such decided spirit and resilience. Not a malingerer among them, that I can see.

"Still, Frank was very right to insist that Mrs. Carter have some respite from her duties, that she might make a full recovery."

"Yes." But Edward frowned, despite his automatic and wholly justified expression of agreement. What need had Dr. Harrison of a senior physician's approval? The young man had more than proven his worth, many times over.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carter," Dr. Morgan was saying now. "I think perhaps you did not hear what I have just said to you."

"What? No -- I am sorry. I was deep in thought. Do continue."

"I only wanted to say, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Morgan evenly, "that perhaps your wife might enjoy a holiday while the weather is still pleasant -- to the seaside, perhaps."

At that Edward stopped walking and turned to his companion. "You propose that I send her away?"

"'Send her away'? Mr. Carter, I am not suggesting anything so cold-hearted! No, I meant that you might take her yourself."

"Forgive me, Dr. Morgan," said Edward crisply. "I am not certain that is possible at present."

"Come now, Mr. Carter. Surely Lady Ludlow will grant you leave to accompany your wife, indeed approve such a plan wholeheartedly. Aside from your good self, there is no one, save perhaps my own wife, who feels such tender concern for Mrs. Carter as does her ladyship."

Edward had no immediate reply to that but merely slowed his gait as he considered Dr. Morgan's suggestion. "I am not certain that Laurie -- that Mrs. Carter would consent to such a thing," he said finally. "She has no desire to be treated as a convalescent."

"That is very understandable, Mr. Carter, in a woman possessed of such an independent spirit."

"And work is a tonic. I am certain you understand what I mean."

"I do not dispute the curative powers of work, Mr. Carter, and of course Mrs. Carter is your helpmeet in every regard. That is most natural. But pray do not exhaust yourselves at a time when both grief and disappointment are weighing upon her, and perhaps yourself."

Edward could make no reply to that, and Dr. Morgan, perhaps out of embarrassment, hastened to continue. "Forgive me, Mr. Carter, for taking the liberty of addressing what must of necessity be a painful subject. But I must tell you that at such a time, when a woman feels her loss most keenly, and indeed believes she might have prevented it, she endures not only grief but self-reproach."

"Self-reproach?"

"I mean, Mr. Carter," continued Dr. Morgan, "that a lady might hold herself responsible for her husband's pain as well as her own."

Edward remembering holding Laurie in his arms as she wept._ I am sorry, Edward. I am sorry._

"It is cruel, Mr. Carter, most extraordinarily cruel, that a woman must bear such a double burden, especially when she could do nothing, when nature itself might not have permitted her a happy conclusion to the weeks and months of waiting."

What was it Dr. Harrison had said? _Surely it would not have proceeded as it ought, no matter how much care your wife took._

"Allow me to set your mind at rest, then, Dr. Morgan. Dr. Harrison was careful to tell me it could not have ended well."

"Come now, Mr. Carter! Do not take offense. It is by no means my intention to interfere with Frank's treatment of your wife, or amend his instructions.

"I have merely offered such reassurances to Mrs. Carter as were mine to give, and bade her look after her own health. It should be very wrong of me to do more than that. Still, she does not need medicines, or even much advice," he said, sighing deeply. "She needs time, as well as your comfort and guidance. Of course I need hardly remind you of such a thing."

"No. No, of course not."

"Indeed I do not think there is anything quite so beneficial to her as your society right now. Let her have her tears; they are to be expected. But do not hold yourself aloof. At such a time she deserves your tenderest attentions --"

"Dr. Morgan, I do not require any tutelage from you to learn what my wife 'deserves.'"

"I am sorry. I had no wish to offend you."

"Yes. Well -- "

"But I must tell you that your wife sought my advice; I did not impose it upon her."

"Laurie sought you out?" said Edward sharply.

"I hope she will forgive me for breaking a confidence. But yes, Mr. Carter, she did. I think she only wanted some reassurance -- "

"Reassurance?"

"That she was not at fault. That she might have hope of giving you a child someday."

Edward froze, then resumed walking as briskly as he might.

"Mr. Carter?" Dr. Morgan quickened his step to keep pace with Edward. "Mr. Carter, I beg of you -- "

Edward paused in mid-stride, and turned back to the physician.

"Forgive me, Dr. Morgan," he said, in a chastened tone. "But I do not think I can continue this discussion at present, and it should be unfair to detain you any longer.

"Good day to you, Dr. Morgan. I -- I thank you."

* * *

The days were shorter now, for all that it was still summer, and the light didn't last. Yet Laurie _would_ take out her mending of an evening, and he almost wished she would not attempt it and so tax her eyes.

For reasons he could not explain, it pained his very heart to see her sitting there with one of his shirts in her hands, and that expression of concentration upon her face. He found himself watching her fingers gliding deftly over the cream linen. It seemed an age since he had touched her hands himself, though he felt as though he could remember every time they had rested against his chest, or passed gently over his forehead as Laurie brushed a lock of his hair back into place, or --

"Edward?"

"Hm?" He had been quite lost in thought.

"I was just saying it does amuse me that Miss Pole wishes my opinion regarding the literary society," said Laurie, smiling to herself.

"Yes. But of course you _are_ a great reader, as Mrs. Forrester observed."

"Oh, surely not! Though if I am, perhaps it is of necessity," she said, drawing the thread once again through the linen.

"Hm?"

"During these past weeks, I mean."

"Laurie, I've no doubt that Mrs. Forrester and, for that matter, Miss Pole were sincere in paying you the compliment. You _have_ had a superior education to theirs. Indeed I think only Reverend Hutton could boast of a better, but he is a clergyman."

"And Dr. Harrison."

"Dr. Harrison?"

"His education is superior to mine."

"Well, he is a physician, a man of science."

"Yes." She kept silent for a moment, all the while smoothing the the shirt that lay upon her knee. "Edward, I think -- "

"Hm?"

She stood up abruptly. "That is, I do not -- Edward, when I was in the village the other day, I called upon Dr. Morgan."

With that Edward laid down the letter he had in his hand, and turned his eyes towards his wife.

"I know. Just this evening he spoke of it to me."

The blush across Laurie's face was evident even by candlelight. "Perhaps you think I ought to have spoken of it sooner."

"I think no such thing," said Edward. "It is only that I had believed you shared my good opinion of Dr. Harrison. Has he disappointed you in any regard?"

"Edward, he is an amiable young man, tactful and forthright at once, and I have no doubt that he is an excellent physician, or at least a very good one," said Laurie. "But that is not all to me, not at present."

"No?" he said. "What is it you lack?"

"I should like to feel at ease confiding in my physician."

"And you do not believe you can do so with Dr. Harrison?"

"No. No, I do not."

"Then why did you not tell me as much?" said Edward, trying to avoid the suggestion of reproach. "Do you think me so hard-hearted?"

"Hard-hearted? No." She bowed her head. "I see your grief, and I cannot but think on my own part in it." Her voice lowered to a rough whisper. "I feared I should only cause you greater pain."

"Laurie." He stood up and went to her, gathered her into his arms, and she neither recoiled nor stiffened her body at his touch, but rested against him, and quietly wept.

"I had hoped it should be enough to go on as we were before," sighed Edward when Laurie had shed her tears, and regained a measure of peace.

She tilted her face upwards. "But we are not as we were before, not truly."

"No."

For a moment they stood in silence, as Laurie absently smoothed away nonexistent wrinkles in his coat. "I even thought to ask Dr. Morgan when you -- when we might live together as husband and wife, as before. He showed commendable presence of mind, though he was blushing, and I suspect I was as well.

"He said we must continue as we are for another month."

"You are not to worry, and I assure you I would never -- "

"Everyone bids me have patience, and no worries," she said. "Or else they dare not speak of it at all. Or they have been kept ignorant by my silence.

"But I _am_ impatient, and worried. Each night I close my eyes and find no rest, only unsettling dreams, and each morning I wake to find emptiness, and guilt."

"Guilt?" said Edward, brushing his fingers tenderly against her cheek. "But you have done nothing wrong. Indeed Dr. Harrison said -- "

"_Please_, Edward."

"I am sorry."

"No, you need not apologize. It is only that I cannot speak of it quite as Dr. Harrison does."

* * *

Jessie was well pleased that the Carters had decided to keep their engagement for this evening; she should have been very sorry not to have had the opportunity to entertain them once again before leaving for Scotland. Preparations for their departure had consumed a great deal of her time, and of course she did not as yet feel equal to leaving Flora in anyone else's care, and so all summer long she had been unable to call upon Mrs. Carter herself. It had been left to Miss Matty to give report of Mrs. Carter's recent illness, and subsequent recovery.

Of course now Mrs. Carter appeared to be very well indeed, if a little subdued. Indeed Jessie felt rather sorrowful herself, and grieved that their friendship should henceforth be conducted only by the post, and through infrequent visits to Cranford. For all that she was going to a very fine home of her own -- something she had not ever dreamed possible -- it distressed her to leave her kind neighbors in Cranford, and of course Father.

Still, at least she might take pleasure in the knowledge that Father had found such good friends in the Carters. He should not be so very alone, once she, Robert, and the baby were in Scotland.

Of course this evening Father made a valiant effort to conceal his melancholy, and was every inch the jovial host while still proving attentive to his granddaughter. It was poignant, yet also amusing, to see that he would employ any pretense to take the baby in his arms -- a rare quality in a man.

And though it was a very quiet party, Flora had not been able to remain asleep, and Father therefore took turns with Jessie at soothing and comforting the child. At length he turned to Mrs. Carter and said, "Should you not like to hold my granddaughter for but a moment? I dare say she is in a better temper just now, and we must not squander such an opportunity."

At that Jessie saw the expression in Mrs. Carter's eyes change, from apparent melancholy to something more akin to alarm, but she quickly recovered, and offered Father a dimpled smile.

"I should like to, very much."

With that Father, with discernible pride, gently placed the infant in Mrs. Carter's arms.

"She does indeed look very like her papa," said Mrs. Carter, absently smoothing the little blanket wrapped round Flora.

"But she has her mother's eyes," said the major fondly. "Can you not see it?"

Mrs. Carter, perhaps wishing to avoid an argument, simply smiled in response, though Jessie was certain she was very near to tears. She managed to keep her composure until Jessie thought of some pretense to return her daughter to the cradle. Upon returning to the sitting-room, she found Father happily regaling the company with his account of some novel or other by Mr. Dickens. Mrs. Carter, seated beside her husband upon the sofa, listened with evident interest, and smiled in all the appropriate places. But Jessie saw that she had taken Mr. Carter's hand and was clasping it tightly.

* * *

"But you understand why I needed to go?" said Laurie, unpinning her brooch and placing it on her bureau.

"I think I do." Edward drew off his coat. "I am not certain the price wasn't too high."

"It should have been easier to remain at home," said Laurie, sighing. "But then I should also have been grieved not to see the Gordons, bittersweet though the evening must prove.

"And Mrs. Gordon has been so kind to us, as has Captain Brown. I fear his evenings will be very lonely, to say nothing of dull, when the Gordons are gone to Scotland."

"Yes."

"Edward, can we not ask him to dine with us when they depart? Perhaps not that first evening, but shortly thereafter."

"If you'd like."

"I do not think there are novels enough by Mr. Dickens to comfort him in the absence of his daughter and granddaughter," said Laurie, unpinning her hair.

"I suspect you are right, and I suspect Captain Brown will never admit it."

"No," said Laurie, turning her back to Edward, that he might undo the buttons on her dress. "He will no doubt devote his energies to the railway, while thinking of nothing but the arrival of the post each day, and perhaps closing his eyes at night -- that is, if his dreams are a comfort and not a torment."

At that Edward said nothing as he slowly, deliberately unfastened each button.

"Laurie --"

"Yes?"

"I have often dreamed of our wedding day."

She turned round. "Have you?"

"Yes. There are always a great many roses."

"Roses." She sighed. "I should like to have such a dream."

"Perhaps you will tonight."

"I cannot promise you that, though I _will_ entertain pleasant thoughts as I fall asleep. That much I can say."

"Promise me something else."

"And what is that?"

"Wake me if you have a nightmare."

"You'll be cross in the morning. You'll be a _bear_," she said affectionately.

"Perhaps. But I will try to comfort you. You are not alone. You are not to be lonely."

* * *

Of course Septimus would keep them waiting. He always kept them waiting.

She and Charles exchanged awkward smiles, and cast a wary glance or two at the heavens. The sky had gone grey, and surely the rain was not far off.

Still, it was a pleasant enough day. The lawns of Hanbury were lush and green, and the lake beyond them still and calm, and she was certain she saw a pair of swans gliding into view. An idyllic scene.

But no Septimus. Definitely no Septimus.

He had promised they should ride the new horse he had acquired, though she had no idea how they should ever proceed. She had not sat a horse since she was but a girl, and moreover she was at present hardly dressed for riding. Perhaps she would let Charles have his turn, then --

"Miss Galindo!"

Captain Brown was striding up the lawn, and evidently having some trouble at it, given the softness of the earth.

"Miss Galindo, I've had word from Dr. Harrison that he has need of your assistance," he said, offering his arm. "It is a rather delicate matter, I must confess. Come now. He is waiting."

With that they set off for the village, and presently arrived at Dr. Harrison's rooms, which looked a good deal drearier than any self-respecting physician ought to keep. But there was Dr. Harrison -- in his shirtsleeves! -- at the door to greet them.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Carter," he said as she and Captain Brown approached him. "He has proven a most difficult patient. However," he added, smiling most charmingly, "I have done my best, and I trust you will approve." He nodded in the direction of the consulting-room and, as though bidden, Edward appeared. He looked very much as he always did -- gleaming top boots, brown coat, hat of the same color. Indeed, if anything, he had taken more care with his attire than usual.

His expression was utterly familiar as well -- pale eyes glinting, lips pressed firmly together.

"Where the devil have you been?" he demanded, immediately taking her arm and guiding her out of the surgery.

"Edward, I was summoned to Hanbury and have only just returned. I trust you have not been waiting long?"

"Long?" He stopped and turned to look at her. "I have been waiting for you _these forty years_!"

* * *

Laurie rolled over, opening her eyes hesitantly against the light. There was Edward, hair rumpled, already sitting up in bed., one hand absently rubbing his eyes. He saw that she was awake and murmured something -- perhaps "Good morning," perhaps something she did not understand. But she heard his next words very clearly.

"Why are you smiling?"

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *

**Note: If you haven't guessed which painting Jack and Mary saw at the National Gallery, just put the name "Arnolfini" into Google and feast your eyes on the results. Clicking "images"****is optional.**_  
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	40. A Mystery and a Surprise

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC miniseries **Cranford**, based on Elizabeth Gaskell's **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**. It is only one of three multi-chapter Mr. Carter/Miss Galindo stories on this site, the other two being Siggy's "An Honourable Estate" and LadyKatherine's "What Might Have Been."

* * *

When last I updated C of C, there were several feet of snow on the ground, and it's taken a blistering summer and a gorgeous Labor Day weekend of writing and rewriting to get to this next part. But I love these characters and mean to follow them through the **resolution** of several key plot threads, which is why this chapter presented such a challenge.

Many thanks to my readers, particularly the Magnificent Six - Solo Lady, theHuntgoeson, Siggy, the doctor's next dance, smc0235, and one unnamed but much appreciated reviewer - who encouraged me during a miserable winter. Thanks as well to AmyLouise2, Deweynumbers, and Tchitchina, and to Cindy for her kind comments. And it's only fitting that I welcome to MissGalindo, who has been following this story for a while. It means a great deal to hear from all of you.

* * *

**Chapter 40: A Mystery and a Surprise**

_As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. _

_- The Song of Solomon 2:3_

_

* * *

_

"I do not believe, Mr. Carter," said Lady Ludlow, "that I have ever seen a day in September to equal this one."

"Indeed it is very fine, my lady," said her estate manager, offering his agreement but no smile.

"So fine," she continued, "that I am truly sorry I did not arrange for Laurentia to accompany us. The fresh air ought to have done her good, and the orchards perhaps summon up happy memories of her childhood."

"Mrs. Carter will be sorry to have missed the opportunity, my lady, though I believe she has a great deal to engage her at home and in the village this day."

"In the village?" Lady Ludlow regarded him from beneath her parasol. "I sometimes think, Mr. Carter, that you expect your wife to march about from place to place like a soldier." She ignored the telltale furrowing of her steward's brow and went on, "Perhaps I ought to send the carriage for her now and then, that she suffer no undue burdens."

"I thank you, my lady. You will understand, however, that Mrs. Carter is fond of her independence."

It was rather a shocking admission, and though Lady Ludlow also detected a touch of choler in Mr. Carter's words, still she must smile. Laurentia _was_ blessed with an independent spirit, and surely her husband had seen as much before their marriage, and perhaps taken it for an advantage. It was strangely gratifying, then, to think that he had been made to learn patience since his wedding day.

"And my wife takes pleasure in her walks," added Mr. Carter tersely. "Especially when the weather is so fine."

"I do not doubt that she does, Mr. Carter," said Lady Ludlow, nodding. "But what says Dr. Harrison? Are young physicians nowadays inclined to look with favor on such exercise or not?"

"He regards it as beneficial to a woman's health and spirits, madam."

"And what do you think, Mr. Carter?"

"I share his opinion."

All was well, then, or ought to have been. Yet something in Mr. Carter's tone suggested otherwise. He would not speak of it, of course, nor would Laurentia.

However, there was no need for worry; if there were storm clouds, they would swiftly pass. Laurentia's patience and good sense should see to that. In the meantime, it should do Mr. Carter no harm to display greater solicitude towards his wife.

"I am glad Laurentia's health is so improved," observed her ladyship. "Do you not think, Mr. Carter, that she might soon be well enough to travel?"

"To travel?"

"Yes. For a holiday later this autumn, perhaps the wedding trip that was denied the both of you."

"My lady, surely you have not forgotten that I am obliged to - "

He stopped himself, and she knew very well that he had been about to mention the school, but would not, for fear of giving offense. And she knew, were she to question him further, that he should protest that his duties occupied him so wholly that he might not think of leisure - this despite months of relative serenity on the estate.

Very well. She would let the subject rest until another time.

"I have forgotten nothing," she said simply, taking note of Mr. Carter's characteristic pout before turning her gaze back towards the orchard. To her delight, the boughs of every nearby tree were heavily laden with ripening apples.

"There will be a bountiful harvest this year, I think," she said, fairly sighing with pleasure.

"I pray it may be so," said Mr. Carter, with the expression of one plagued by doubts about the generosity of God Himself.

* * *

Sitting a horse had been out of the question. He could not bring himself to attempt it, not since the accident, and besides, as her ladyship insisted upon accompanying him to see the orchards, she had simply ordered the carriage for them both. It was no more than she had done on several other occasions, yet this time it unsettled him. It had not been long since she had conveyed him in similar fashion to the village, and for a very different purpose. That day too had been fully as fine as this one, deceptively so.

Her ladyship had forgotten none of that, surely, though she spoke not of word of it now, and confined herself to praising the beauty of the day, and the bounty of the harvest.

* * *

A fine day, a bountiful harvest. That ought to have pleased him, as it had her ladyship. Yet his spirits were such that there might as well have been plagues of locusts on a biblical scale, or hail the size of those ripening Hanbury apples, or indeed storms of any variety. God knew there were storms enough at home - at _home_, which had heretofore been his refuge, and was now a battleground.

Perhaps it was unfair to call it so, though his wife could wield words as adroitly as any good soldier might a weapon, indeed had done as much that very morning. Did he expect her, Laurie had asked, to divine his intentions without his uttering a word of them? Or that she should breach the sanctuary of his study without so much as a by-your-leave? Indeed, had he forgotten the conversation they had before their marriage?

He had, of course, forgotten nothing; it was _her_ memory that was faulty. But that was entirely forgivable, he said, when her nerves and health were in such a delicate state.

At that Laurie had informed him that her nerves were not impaired in any fashion, and as for her health, she might offer no complaint.

With forbearance he had stood listening to her, remembering how provoking she had seemed earlier in their acquaintance - Miss Galindo, with her pert manner and modern ideas. Yet he could not but admit to himself that even then he had found her person and voice uncommonly pleasing - as he did now, quarrels or no.

In fact he regretted taking his leave so abruptly. He might have at least spoken a mild word, if not to beg her pardon, at least to give her the opportunity to respond in kind. A touch, a kiss seemed too much to hope for, yet either ought to have brought a truce, and an end to one of his worries, at least.

And there were a great many of those of late, not all of which he might share with Laurie - this fresh evidence of Lord Septimus's ingratitude, for instance. The news should not astonish her, Edward suspected, but it should also grieve her, and he would not allow that, even if she never knew he was shielding her - not that she seemed to need his protection, this willful, self-possessed wife of his; not that she appeared to be _his_ at all these days, when she beguiled and vexed him in equal measure.

* * *

Not long after her husband had departed the house Laurentia had set out, to perform her appointed errands, as well as enjoy the fresh beauty of the day, and an exhilarating walk.

As she made her way across fields and through the woods, though, she hardly took note of her surroundings, or of the morning sky, a particularly glorious shade of blue. Her mind was instead engaged by her most recent quarrel with Edward. He might as well have been at her elbow, accompanying her every step of the way, as Laurentia conjured up what he had said to her that morning, the tone he had employed, the very expression on his face as he had taken his leave - brows lowered, lips set in a fashion she had seen a hundred times.

His anger was a mystery to her. Why had he reproved her, when he himself was in the wrong? If he had wished her to post his letters, why had he left them on the desk in his study, where she would never disturb them? He might as well have buried them in the garden!

Of course Edward had been angry when she made that last observation, and refused to acknowledge his part in the confusion. Then had he set out with only the most curt of farewells, and no kiss at all - not that she had been in any humor to receive his kiss, or give one in return.

Of course, owing to the restrictions of her convalescence, she had of late offered him hardly any sign at all of her affection and regard, and now that she was well again, she could not say whether she was meant to invite his attentions, or simply expect Edward to reclaim his rights. Neither of them would address such a sensitive matter, but then it was rather an ordeal to talk of any subject these days.

Perhaps their quarrel might have resolved itself more swiftly if she had been able to soothe and distract him as an affectionate wife might. She was already attuned to his wishes, though they had not been married long.

And she did pity him, for all that he had vexed her, for of late there had been no respite for Edward at all. He was restless throughout the night, and by day his considerable energies were occupied with the estate, and the preparations for the school. Obstinate as he was, he undertook too much himself, though he had at least accepted Laurentia's assistance, in fact entrusted her with almost every particular of his plans.

For all that, though, he was still keeping _something_ from her; she was certain of it. Perhaps it concerned Hanbury Court, perhaps the arrangements for Harry. She simply did not know, and Edward had not confided in her. Possibly he never would.

His reserve ought not to have worried her; she knew he would keep nothing secret without good reason. He disliked subterfuge, and Laurentia even now blushed to think of the moment when, in response to his inquiry, she had confessed to removing certain papers from his desk, and placing them in the hands of her ladyship, thus enabling the mortgaging of Hanbury itself.

Such an act ought to have put an end to her acquaintance with Mr. Carter altogether, yet _he_ had been the one to seek a reconciliation. His anger was justified, her blunder appalling, and still he had come to her. However stern, even brusque, he might appear to the estate staff or the villagers - or even to his wife and friends, if he was out of temper - he was nothing if not fair-minded.

Now Laurentia knew as well that away from prying eyes, he was gentle and considerate, even tender, and would be again, surely, once their quarrels were past.

He had sought her pardon when _she_ had been in the wrong. Now, perhaps, it was left to her to sue for peace. Laurentia should have time enough to think how to proceed, before Edward returned home that evening.

* * *

"Mrs. Carter! Mrs. Carter!"

Miss Pole seized the brim of her bonnet with one hand and the skirts of her gown with the other and, without pausing first to look for oncoming carts and carriages, hurried across the street towards her quarry. Before the lady herself she made the appropriate reverence, which was most cordially reciprocated.

"Good morning, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Carter, who looked uncommonly well - no sign of her recent illness, none at all.

"Good morning indeed, Mrs. Carter! I am glad that we have met each other, for I have this day urgent business to discuss with you."

"Urgent business?" Mrs. Carter's brow furrowed slightly. "Is there some trouble, Miss Pole?"

"One can might not refer to it as _trouble_, though it is a matter of some delicacy - "

"Oh, Mrs. Carter! Mrs. Carter!"

Both ladies started and turned round to see the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson advancing towards them - or, rather, being borne in their direction by two of the unluckier members of her staff, who came to a standstill before Miss Pole and Mrs. Carter, and carefully lowered the chair - which contained not only their mistress but also Giuseppe, both of whom had been dining rather too well of late.

"Good morning to you, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Jamieson, summoning up a smile. "Mrs. Carter," she said again, gravely nodding her head, while Giuseppe barked his greetings. "How fortunate that you are abroad in the village today, for I have a matter of import to address with you."

"Indeed, Mrs. Jamieson?"

"In fact it is a miracle that I am here at all, for I was met with a great many obstacles along the way. I am speaking, of course, of that to-do at the school - or prospective school, I should say."

"I am afraid I do not understand."

"Why, you know - this nonsense with the masonry."

"Do you mean that Mr. Dolan has brought the stones for the construction of the wall?"

"Indeed I do, Mrs. Carter. Such an inconvenience. And that your husband would engage" - Mrs. Jamieson dropped her voice to a whisper - "an_ Irishman _to do the work! I never heard of such a thing."

"Then allow me to set your mind at rest, Mrs. Jamieson. Jem Hearne gave a good account of Mr. Dolan's industry and character, as did Captain Brown."

"_Captain Brown_?" Mrs. Jamieson's eyebrows rose so precipitately they ought to have set her cap askew. "So this is his doing. But perhaps I ought not to be astonished."

"Pray do not mistake my meaning, Mrs. Jamieson." Mrs. Carter spoke her words softly and carefully, though the color in her cheeks betrayed stronger emotion. "Captain Brown merely provided valuable counsel.

"Indeed this plan for the alteration to the school was only formed after much discussion, and my own entreaties. My husband is a practical man, Mrs. Jamieson, and should not like to create more work for the teachers by subjecting them to the prospect of their little pupils wandering off whenever they are at play, and so he consented to the construction of a walled enclosure."

"Hm. Is your husband always so easily persuaded, Mrs. Carter?"

Mrs. Carter's smile was unforced. "No, Mrs. Jamieson, I can assure you he is not."

"Well! I had never thought to see such an uproar in Cranford," said Mrs. Jamieson. "I do hope Mr. Carter will answer for it if there is any further disruption."

"My husband, Mrs. Jamieson, far from shunning responsibility, will likely as not seek it out."

"Indeed. But perhaps he ought to think first of his duty to _Lady Ludlow_, and not go about meddling in things that do not concern him."

"I hardly think the welfare of the village children - "

"And again no garden party this year, no doubt owing to the economies your husband has imposed on her ladyship." Mrs. Jamieson sighed deeply. "How altered our little community seems!"

To that observation Mrs. Carter could produce no immediate reply, and Miss Pole seized the opportunity to perform her Christian duty.

"Upon my word, Mrs. Jamieson, surely we are not so in want of diversion that we need look to her ladyship to provide it. Why, there was that performance by the conjurer in the assembly rooms only last month!

"And then we have the harvest festival to think of, and in due course the literary society will commence its gatherings. And in that regard, I have one or two matters I must see to see to directly."

"Oh! Then I will not detain you," said Mrs. Jamieson. "Good morning, Miss Pole," she said, nodding as graciously as she might with a restless dog in her arms. "Mrs. Carter."

"Good morning, Mrs. Jamieson," said both ladies, giving their farewells and curtsies nearly in unison. They watched as the two men took up the chair again and proceeded onwards. Miss Pole was convinced she heard one betray his emotions in an audible sigh.

* * *

"You might have told her, Mrs. Carter, that it was Miss Tomkinson, with her superior knowledge of child-tending, who thought to propose the walled garden," said Miss Pole, turning towards her companion.

"I have by no means forgotten Miss Tomkinson's part in this, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Carter. "But I should not like to see her forced to provide a justification of her position. No, it is enough that Mrs. Jamieson thinks of ill of me, and perhaps even of my husband, though he does not deserve that."

"No indeed! Nor does Captain Brown, who will no doubt be forced to provide an account of himself when next he meets with Mrs. Jamieson.

"Well, shall we go?"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Pole, but I do not - "

"Oh! I had quite forgotten my errand, Mrs. Carter, as I dare say you have yours. But there is a matter of importance I wish to discuss with you. Let us walk, and I shall reveal all."

* * *

Mrs. Carter had made short work of her appointed tasks, and presented herself in Princess Street at the agreed-upon time, to find Miss Pole waiting for her. Calling hours had only just begun as they made their way to Miss Matty's doorstep, to be received with the expected civility and warmth.

After a few pleasantries, Miss Pole took up her theme. "It is owing to Providence itself that I met with Mrs. Carter this morning as she went about her errands - some business or other for the school, I dare say - for I needed to seek her opinion of the selection of books for the literary society. She was greatly astonished to hear that your participation had been called into doubt, for that very reason."

"You must forgive me, Mrs. Carter," said their hostess, blushing a little. "I always looked to my sister for guidance in such matters. Deborah's knowledge was superior to mine, and her opinions so decided." Miss Matty lowered her voice to a whisper, as though Miss Jenkyns might overhear them from heaven itself. "I fear she was greatly shocked when Captain Brown made us a present of **The Pickwick Papers**. She always considered Mr. Dickens most objectionable."

"Yet now you have heard something of Mr. Dickens," said Miss Pole crisply. "So have we all, and I dare say none of us has been corrupted by vulgar sentiment.

"Besides, we are to begin with the works of _Miss Austen_. Miss Tomkinson has read them all, as has Mrs. Carter, and suffered no ill effect."

"Of course not," said Miss Matty. "It is only that Deborah never included Miss Austen's novels in her reading." She turned to Mrs. Carter. "I know nothing of them myself. Are they very…sensational?"

"By no means," said Mrs. Carter, smiling. "They are quite as edifying as they are amusing. And Miss Austen was a clergyman's daughter herself," she added shrewdly, watching her hostess's expression alter from anxiety to relief.

"Was she indeed?" asked Miss Matty. "Then I should be very interested in taking part in your reading circle."

"_The Cranford_ _Literary Society_, Miss Matty," said Miss Pole, firmly and with no small degree of satisfaction.

"Yes, the Cranford Literary Society. Will many of our neighbors be joining?"

"I should think so - Miss Tomkinson and Mrs. Forrester, of course, and perhaps the Goddards - though not the Harrisons; I cannot tell you why - and Captain Brown - "

"Captain Brown?" Miss Matty could not conceal her astonishment. "Captain Brown has consented to be one of our number?"

"I own I have not addressed the subject with him as yet, Miss Matty," said Miss Pole, coloring a little. "But he can hardly refuse. What else has he to do, now the Gordons are gone to Scotland?"

* * *

It was a fine September evening, very fine. The day had proceeded just as it ought, with no idleness or discord among the men, and at dusk he had been free to return to his little house to take a simple supper, then leave the window open as he read Jessie's letter, and afterwards something from Mr. Dickens. Yet doing so had brought him no pleasure.

And the house was so intolerably quiet. He could not understand why he should suddenly find it so unsettling. When Jessie had been there, he had on some evenings actually preferred that she take up her sewing or a book, and sit with him in companionable silence, rather than at the spinet. He dearly loved his girl, of course, but had to admit she possessed no particular gift for music, and there were times when his spirits could ill afford another evening of melancholy tunes.

Then Jessie had married, and given him a granddaughter, and if there was little peace in the house then, Captain Brown did not mind, as long as the child was flourishing, and her mother well contented, despite the new demands and responsibilities.

But now his little family had departed for Scotland, and there was nothing left to him but this house, with its confining rooms and creaking floorboards. It was absurd that any of that should bother him when he had known the privations of encampments, the bleakness of garrison towns. Why, in Cranford he was surrounded by every comfort, and by good neighbors as well.

Yet he found no refuge in his house, though it at least afforded him a shield against the pitying looks and forced smiles of the ladies, who asked after Jessie and Flora whenever they met him, and had little else to say once those subjects were exhausted.

No, there was nothing for him now but the railway, and the solitary walk to church every Sunday, and his books and, when Jessie found time to write, a letter from Scotland. But then that ought to suffice for a man in his time of life. Truly that ought to suffice.

* * *

_Largs, Tuesday morning_

_Dear Father,_

_I pray this finds you well and happy._

_We are so ourselves, and I can report more remarkable news:__ Flora has learnt to sleep throughout most of the night, and is consequently in a much better temper. So are we all, I confess. I had not imagined a child should not take her rest at night, but instead always be waking. Now Flora sleeps sweetly, and we have the leisure of reading, or of course retiring early, though we do not do so while the weather remains fair, and the days are not yet grown very short. _

_And now I shall be able to write to you oftener, and give you report of everything that happens here. I am kept very busy, but not an hour of the day passes when I do not think of you, at home in Cheshire. _

_Until my life's end I shall remember the kindness shown to me in Cranford, and it comforts me greatly to know you are among such people - the wise Reverend Hutton, and merry Mrs. Forrester, and the watchful Miss Pole - who has a good heart, I know, though some may not see it at once - and, above all, dear Miss Matty._

_Father, I was very grieved when Miss Jenkyns died, and not only because she had been the best and truest of friends. No, above all else it pierced my heart to think of Miss Matty, and her sorrow at the loss of a most beloved sister. Thank the merciful Lord that her brother is now returned, to comfort and cheer her._

_I thank God as well that you have such good neighbors as these, and I expect you will often write to me of them, and any news from Cranford. I do not doubt that Miss Pole will provide you report of all matters of consequence, particularly the health of Mrs. Forrester's cow. Remember how the children laughed to see Bessie in her absurd flannel costume? But it was fashioned on your advice, for there was no other remedy, once the poor thing had lost all her hair. _

_A cow wearing grey flannel! We do not see such things in here Scotland, and I suspect no one would believe me if I related the curious history of Mrs. Forrester's Bessie. When Flora is a little older I shall tell her the story, and make her laugh, and no doubt with time she herself grow to love the dear little village where such odd things happen._

_I promise we shall come to visit you in Cranford, Father, as often as we may.__ Pray give my kindest regards to Bessie's mistress, when you see her, and of course to Miss Pole, and Miss Matty, and Mr. Jenkyns._

_Your loving daughter,_

_Jessie_

* * *

Tuesday evening, and still no letter from Mary. Jack ought not to have minded - he'd kept everything she'd sent him, and fairly learnt it all by heart - but the evenings were a good deal less lonely when he had something to read besides his medical texts and notebooks.

And though it was only September, it seemed a great while since Mary and he had spent their last evening together, and of course that had been in the company of all her London relations.

One of the cousins had sat down at the pianoforte, and then someone had asked Jack to sing, which he did, if only to please Mary. His voice had not failed, though he very much wished it _had_, for they'd made him sing all manner of sad, sentimental songs - the worst sort of punishment for a fellow about to send his girl back to Manchester. A good thrashing ought to have been less painful.

But he did his duty, and might have laughed over it all with Mary if they'd had more than a moment together before parting. Instead they'd said goodbye awkwardly, both of them in a melancholy humor, and trying to conceal it. The next morning Mary had gone home to Manchester, and Jack had taken up his work, with the prospect of nothing else but that for months to come.

He did not mind it so much by day, when he was kept busy, but every night he took to his bed hoping to dream of Mary.

This time, though, he closed his eyes and found himself at the seaside. It looked nothing like home: not a blade of grass, a stone, or a cottage in sight, only the pale sand stretching out in either direction, and the water and sky both a dull grey. In fact there seemed to be no color at all.

And no company, but for a stranger standing there on the sand, a man dressed all in brown. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes were on the sea.

He turned round as Jack came near. The fellow had a fine head of hair, now white with age, and the face of an Irishman, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was unlike any Jack had ever heard.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" said the stranger, nodding towards the sea.

_Beautiful? When the waves are rough and the sky grey?_ Jack was about to say as much when he saw that the man had spoken the truth: it _was_ as fine a September day as ever he'd seen: the sky gleaming blue, the waves tumbling steadily towards the shore - a welcome sound, even a comforting one.

"Yes, it is," said Jack in reply. "It is beautiful."

The stranger smiled, then turned his gaze back to the sea. "Then what's a young fellow like you got to be sad about?"

"Sad?"

"I see it in your eyes, my friend."

So Jack told him all about his work, and his home in Ireland, and his mother and sisters waiting for him there, and Mary in Manchester, waiting for him _there_. In fact the stranger listened to him confess all his worries, but when Jack woke up he could not recall what the man had said in reply, but for one thing, just the one.

_You do what God has called you to do._

And somehow it was enough to remember that, and the kindness in the stranger's eyes as he'd spoken the words. It was a queer dream, but Jack felt the better for it. He could take up his work again, and do what he was what he was meant to do. Perhaps it was what he'd always been meant to do.

Mind you, he'd hope for a letter from Mary every day. That wouldn't change.

* * *

Mr. Carter almost jumped when Harry came into the office, and hurried to put away his papers. Perhaps he had forgotten Harry was coming to supper that night, or maybe he had just been thinking about all the things Lady Ludlow wanted him to do. But he smiled at Harry, as if he was glad to be going home, and he was quick to put on his hat and lock the door behind them.

Harry had a lot to tell him as they walked. It had been a fine day, and the Reverend Hutton had sent him out to fetch a great many things, and so had Mr. Hatch, who was very cross and told him not to dawdle. Helen said Mr. Hatch was _always_ cross about something, and Harry should only worry if he wasn't. That made Harry laugh. Helen was clever, and so was Lizzie, only they couldn't read Greek and Latin like their papa. Did Mr. Carter know that Harry could say something in Latin now? Just a few words Reverend Hutton had taught him. Mr. Carter smiled and said that was remarkable, and Harry told him he hadn't said the words to Dada yet; he might think Harry was swearing. That made Mr. Carter laugh.

Mrs. Carter met them at the door, and her face turned pink as soon as she saw them. She looked very pretty. Harry was glad she was well again, and wanted to hear all about the books and Reverend Hutton and how Harry had spent his day. After supper she took out her sewing and sat with him and Mr. Carter while they read aloud. Could she read Latin and Greek? No, just German and French; Harry knew that. But she was as clever as the rector was, _and_ as kind. In fact she was the kindest lady Harry knew.

* * *

After Harry left, Edward swiftly repaired to his study, perhaps to examine their accounts, or write a letter, or avoid her company; Laurentia could not say which. He had barely spoken to her during supper and afterwards, and, for all his smiles for Harry, and even for herself, had seemed distracted. Possibly he was taxing his energies beyond what they might bear. Possibly he was worried about the estate, or about Harry. She should not know until she spoke to Edward in private.

With a little hesitation Laurentia approached the door of her husband's study. Edward, pen in hand, was at his desk, with some paper or other before him. Even by candlelight she could see his face clearly - and note how careworn he seemed.

But he had not noticed her approach, and so she tapped on the door, already ajar.

"Edward?"

"Mm?" he grunted.

"Edward, I wish to speak to you."

At that his expression changed again - to resignation or resolve; she knew not which. In fact he looked very much as he had done when first she had seen him at the desk in his office at Hanbury. She was startled to acknowledge to herself that even in that period of their acquaintance she had been drawn to him. The occasional smiles he gave her, the expression in his eyes when he looked at her, the timbre of his voice when he addressed her had caused her heart to beat faster.

She had not been able to put a name to her feelings then, but at present she might, and by that power she dared address Edward.

"Harry was excessively talkative tonight, I fear."

"The boy is in good spirits. Not a bad thing, I think," said Edward dryly, keeping his eyes on his correspondence, or whatever that was on the desk.

"No, of course not. Only - Edward, I fear it may seem Harry's head has been turned by all that has happened. He is full of talk of books, and of Latin and Greek, and the rectory garden, and the rector himself, and perhaps seems a little distant."

"Laurentia," said Edward evenly, at last raising his eyes to look at her, "Harry must make his way in the world. He is only just now beginning, yet I have great hopes for him."

"I know that. And I am certain he will always remember what you have done on his behalf."

At that Edward laid down the pen once more.

"Even if he says nothing of it now," continued Laurentia, "I do not doubt his gratitude towards you, _or_ his affection."

Edward sat motionless in his chair, his eyes cast downward. Laurie came to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Pray do not trouble yourself, about that, or about anything else." Perhaps it was folly to speak those last four words. _Of course_ he would worry. He always did.

"All will be well." With one hand she brushed the hair from his brow, then leaned over and and kissed the spot, very near where the scar still showed. As she drew back she saw Edward's expression had changed again, to something even she could not read. But he spoke not a word, nor did he look up at her.

She had not effected a reconciliation, then; that would have to wait for the morrow, or perhaps beyond. There was nothing else to be done.

"All will be well," she repeated.

"Good night, Edward. Pray do not remain too long at your work."

"Of course I will not."

She turned and made her way to the study door.

"Laurie -"

She looked back at him. "Yes?"

"I - "

But no other words came. He smiled at her then, smiled as the Mr. Carter of old might have done from behind another desk.

"You'd best get to bed."

"Yes. Good night, Edward."

"Good night."

As she was leaving the room she heard him say, "Do not worry. I shall not sit up too late."

* * *

It had been a small gesture, barely perceptible. For but a moment she'd left her hand resting on his shoulder, her thumb stroking it. Perhaps even she had not known what she'd done. But the touch of her hand after all this time...

For a moment he sat in the near-darkness, his face in his hands. She knew, didn't she? She knew. Surely she must. His Laurie.

He had offered her all he had, made many a sacrifice on her behalf, looked after her with the labor of his mind and his body, and revealed the depth of his feeling both in words and silence. Yet he had never given her anything as profound as her simple expression of trust and concern. She would offer the olive branch when they quarreled. She could even think of his pride, believing that Harry had wounded him by this talk of his new responsibilities and pursuits.

What _had_ he been thinking, treating her very nearly as his clerk, and not as his wife? And she was so much more than his wife; she was his friend, perhaps even his advocate.

Of course over the past few days she had been out of temper, had even spoken sharply to him. But then he had provoked her. He had an uncommon talent for provoking her, as she did him.

Still it was she who had come to him, with gentle words, with trust, even with respect, when she might have kept her distance.

He would do justice to her trust in him. He would do it all. Till his last breath he would do what God had called him to do.

* * *

His step was very soft, or as soft as he could make it, when he at last mounted the stairs, expecting to find her asleep, and he was therefore startled when a sharp voice emerged from the near darkness.

"Edward, you need not creep about like a thief. I am not asleep." Laurie sat up, rubbing her eyes. "That sounded peevish," she added, with evident contrition. "I did not mean it so. It is only that I am wakeful."

"You must think on pleasant things," said Edward, as kindly as he could manage. "Then sleep will come."

"Pleasant things." Laurie sat with her arms round her knees, and considered his words. "Books of verse. Ice cream. Ice cream _does_ sound very appealing just now, even if it is no longer summer. Yes, I shall think of Hanbury in summer, with all the roses in bloom, and of the two of us beneath the shade of a tree."

"Another garden party? Then I should have a great deal to do."

"I expect so. Yet the eyes of the ladies would follow you as you went about your work. The immaculately turned out Mr. Carter, walking stick in hand - "

Edward snorted. Laurie sometimes did take her teasing a bit far, though part of him was relieved to hear it again. And he loved the sound of her voice as she spoke to him thus -

"I am in earnest, Edward. Have you never seen the expressions on the faces of the women as you pass?"

He could think of no reply to that! And it was well that it _was_ dark and cool in the bedroom, for Edward felt his face burning, as though under a hot sun. He made ready for bed and, as he did so, decided to speak of what he had been pondering all day.

"Laurentia - Laurie, I was thinking - "

"Mm?" She sounded a bit drowsy now.

" - it seems the orchards are faring very well this season." No, that was a stupid way to begin. "I mean that things are going very well at Hanbury, and with the school - but that is not what I wished to tell you, not truly. What I wanted to ask was, should you like to take a holiday?"

"A holiday?"

"Together. This autumn."

"I should like that. But the school - "

"We can arrange something." A rash promise, but he so wanted to make things right.

"A holiday," she said again, her voice soft. "Where shall we go?"

The question took him by surprise. "Perhaps the seaside," he said finally.

"The seaside. That sounds very pleasant."

Later he could not recall what they had spoken of after that, or which of them had fallen asleep first, or even whether they bade each other good night. But he, at least, fell into a deep sleep, with only the pleasantest of dreams. It was Christmastime again, and they were at Hanbury Court - the guests of her ladyship, this time, with nothing to do but enjoy themselves.

* * *

"I am in your good graces again, then," said Edward the next morning as Laurie was helping him on with his coat, which she had brought without being asked.

"You know you are." With a little smile she stood there before him, watching as he fastened all the buttons, and then reached up to arrange his neckcloth.

All was right between them, then, but he couldn't resist teasing her a bit more. "Then you are resolved to be kind to me," he said gruffly.

"I am always kind to you, Edward," she replied, in mock indignation. "But yes, I shall be kind. _Very_ kind," she added, with provoking emphasis, looking up into his face. Suddenly she frowned.

"Is something wrong?"

"Something is not quite _right._ Did you want for adequate light while shaving, Edward?" she said, putting a hand under his chin, and gently turning his face from side to side.

"I was as careful as ever I am. But it wouldn't do to appear before her ladyship, and today of all days, looking so -"

"Then perhaps I am mistaken," murmured Laurie. All at once she rose on tiptoe to kiss him on the chin.

"Now you're just teasing."

"Yes. I do love teasing you, Edward, but I do so out of affection, not malice."

"I know that!" he said, deliberately pouting, distracting her just long enough so that he could gain the advantage, and prevent her from saying another word for several minutes. He _did_ love the sound of her voice, even when she was teasing him, perhaps especially then, but he loved the touch of her hands, too, and her mouth.

They stood there for some time, Laurie stroking his hair with her hands, and he was very sorry he could not linger this morning, and would have to content himself with those few kisses.

But his mind was working. He wanted very much to make good on the suggestion that they go off for a few days by themselves. With her ladyship's wholehearted approval, he might begin making arrangements directly - this very day, if possible.

* * *

He had only just unlocked the door of his office and made a start on the day's tasks when word came that her ladyship required his presence at once.

Lady Ludlow was not alone when he entered the bright parlor where he so often met with her. Edward recognized her ladyship's solicitor, and a banker from Manchester. Both of them nodded in acknowledgment, though neither seemed eager to meet his eye.

"Pray leave us, gentlemen, that Mr. Carter and I may conduct a private interview. Afterwards you may rejoin us."

Once the doors were closed behind them, Lady Ludlow turned to him.

"Mr. Carter," she said sternly, "I have found you out."

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
